


Keep the Key Within Reach

by SpiritsFlame



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: But it works out okay, Friends With Benefits, Light BDSM, M/M, Pining, Under-negotiated Kink, boys being stupid, practiced by two people who don't know what they're doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-02-27 05:34:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 62,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13241514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritsFlame/pseuds/SpiritsFlame
Summary: SON OF PARLIAMENTARY OFFICIAL CAUGHT IN SORDID SEX SCANDAL, CLICK FOR VIDEO, is a headline that Monty could have done without. He could do without the sidelong looks, the way his Mother can hardly speak to him, the way his best friend and secret love of his life has been avoiding him. He could do without the fact that every time he goes out now, every time he tries to move past this, he can't get over the fear that this, too, will be caught on film. If only there were someone he trusted; absolutely, to the bones trusted, who would be willing to have sex with him. No strings attached, of course.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "The wisest advice to me that I didn't reach  
> Was to lock up the heart, but keep the key within reach." - Raise the Roof, Carbon Leaf

To Monty’s credit, he hadn’t know that there was a camera on him at the time. Less to his credit, he probably wouldn’t have cared if he had. It hadn’t been a particularly good fuck, he complains to Percy later. Knowing that there was a camera there might have improved the entire situation.

Percy only makes the same face he makes every time the subject of The Tape comes up, a complex expression where his mouth goes tight and his eyes go narrow and he doesn’t look quite furious but he doesn’t look quite anything else.

The only good thing about the entire situation is that it’s not in the middle of campaign season. Monty honest to God shudders to think what would have happened if that had been the case. As it is, his father only has time to knock him around a bit before he is summoned back to Parliament for a vote.

“It’s not so bad, darling, really,” Monty assures Percy. “He never goes for the face anymore, not since I started getting my fantastic mug in the papers.”

Perhaps that was where it started. He had been seventeen the first time the Paparazzi snapped a photo of him leaving a club, and back then SON OF PROMINENT PARLIAMENTARY OFFICIAL CAUGHT IN SCANDALOUS ACTS had actually been enough to grab anyone’s attention.

Now, Monty has been in and out of the paps so much that no one paid him any mind any more.

Internet sensation though, that’s new. And SON OF PARLIAMENTARY OFFICIAL CAUGHT IN SORDID SEX SCANDAL, CLICK FOR VIDEO does have a more striking sound to it, even Monty has to admit.

He doesn’t feel betrayed, not really. It’s not like he had _trusted_ Richard. He’d only wanted a good lay for the night and he’s mostly just offended that Richard hadn’t even delivered on that first.

His father threatens to sue— Monty or Richard or the bloody Sun, Monty isn’t quite sure— Mother wrings her hands and looks worried, and Percy seethes quietly but Monty— Monty just wants to pack up and move along, nothing to see here.

(Well. Not nothing. There is quite a bit to see, if Monty says so himself, and the proof is right there, darling.)

“Look, here!” Monty says, watching the numbers on the page go up. “I’m going to be bigger than Kim Kardashian.”

Percy looks at his screen and away just as quickly. “Jesus, Monty, shut that down, would you.”

And well, maybe there is the one thing. The one, small downside to have his bits floating around the internet on a global scale. And that is that Percy, the love of his life, his sun and stars, is rather a buzz kill.

Or, more to the point, that Percy has hardly looked him in the eye since the whole thing came out.

(Monty prefers buzz kill, because if he has to think for one more second about the way that Percy’s eyes have been sliding right past him, the way that Percy’s mouth has started to twist in something an awful lot like disgust, then— well.)

“I just don’t think that it’s my best angle,” he says, scrutinizing the screenshot The Sun has been running for weeks. “Not a bad angle, mind you. I don’t believe that I have one. But not my best.”

“Can you just stop _talking_ about it?” Percy hisses.

“I don’t see why I have to,” Monty replies. “No one else has.”

Percy’s mouth does the thing again, and so Monty sighs and closes his laptop and nudges Percy over on the bed. “Come on, budge up.”

Monty’s favorite times are when Percy is being ornery and does not budge up in the slightest and Monty simply has to press against his side, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, knee to knee.

This is not one of those times. This time, Percy scrambles halfway across the bed like touching Monty’s skin will contaminate him and Monty feels actually physically ill for a second before he throttles the feeling viciously.

He can’t really blame Percy, really. Who would to see quite that much of their best friend? (Monty would. He really, really would.)

But still, it hurts.

It seems lately like even Malory is against him, turning away from him more quickly. It’s not exactly as if she always mirrors Percy’s emotions, but she is more attuned to Percy than anyone besides Monty himself and whenever she avoids him it always meant that Percy wants to as well.

Monty ignores them both to flop down on his stomach beside Percy, keenly aware of the way that Percy shifts so that not a bit of their skin touches. Malory, blast her, doesn’t even wag her tail at him.

“This isn’t how I wanted to start my summer hols,” Monty says into the pillows.

Percy only makes a vague noise of ascent. Malory nips cruelly at Monty’s sock, even though he knows perfectly well that she’s been trained specifically to not do that. She only does it when Percy is properly cross with him about something and is too polite to say anything.

But honestly, Monty doesn’t care about the stupid bloody Tape. He doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

There is one other small, infinitesimal way in which Monty cares about the Tape.

Monty is not has never been shy about himself, about his body, or about sex. He’s not shy about who he likes or how he likes them. He likes sex, likes it with a variety of partners, with a variety of genders, in a variety of ways.

Except. There is one thing. He’s not ashamed of it, not precisely. He just doesn’t want anyone to know.

It’s just that sometimes he gets an itch under his skin. The world seems to press too close to him, his fathers words ring too loud in his ears. Sometimes he feels like he’s separated from the entire world by a glass wall, a distant, yearning ache inside of him. Like even Percy is too far out of reach, and if Monty tried to touch he would slip away like a mirage under Monty’s fingertips.

When it happens, when it gets bad, when Monty feels the weight of his fathers expectations and the world’s gaze and the constant ache where his love for Percy has dug in teeth, Monty will go out. He finds strangers who will put him on his knees, card rough fingers through his hair, tilt his had back and take.

If he’s in a mood to be discerning, he knows exactly which clubs are the best for this. The ones where he can choke out enough words to convey that he doesn’t want pain, he just wants— well. He’s never quite sure what he wants. He wants them to shatter the glass and ice he’s found himself encased in. He wants someone who will take what they want and stay afterwords, stroking his hair with the same hands that had tugged at it so ruthlessly.

He likes it when they tie him up. He likes it when they fuck him. He likes it, he loves it when they tell him how good he is, how well he takes it. He likes it when they leave marks, and he can press his fingers to them for days afterwords and remember the feel of them.

The weeks after The Tape are difficult. Not because of The Tape itself, but because of the way the bloody paparazzi seem to be everywhere. The way that Percy can’t look at him, and his mother won’t look at him and Felicity had sent a text that just said ‘I’m sorry this happened but I’m also surprised it didn’t happen sooner,’ and Monty had felt ridiculous for feeling hurt by that.

Monty is already feeling somewhat distant when he gets to the club. It’s not his favorite, not one of the better ones for the mood he’s in, but it’s well enough. The thought of leading the press to Eleftheria makes something claw in his throat, in his stomach.

The music is heady the second that he walks through the doors to the club, pressing into the cotton that seems to be smothering him. Monty all but throws himself into the dance floor, the hot tangle of bodies and noise.

It feels hardly more then a second before he has someone pressed up against his left side, grinding into his hip and yes. This was what he needed.

They move together for the the breadth of a song, before Monty turns into the stranger, a man with dark hair and dark eyes and yes, even better. He’s taller then Monty, but that’s fairly standard. Feeling bold and distant and vaguely distant, Monty puts his arms around the man’s neck, reeling him in until they’re almost nose to nose. Or, nose to chin.

The man wedges his leg between Monty’s, one long, delicious grind of muscles. Monty throws his head back in a groan and the man puts his mouth to Monty’s throat, dipping until he can dig teeth into the muscle of Monty’s shoulder.

Monty whines low in his throat, and he can already feel the haze lifting from his thoughts, clarifying in that instant of sex and heat.

He tugs at the man’s hair, just enough to shout into his ear. The man meets his eyes and gives a sharp nod. Then he drags Monty through the crowd, and yes, this was exactly the right choice, well done Monty.

The bathroom isn’t empty, so they stagger back into one of the hallways. The music is loud enough that Monty can still feel the bass in his bones. He lets it fill him as he drops to his knees, let’s the impact jolt through him.

The man groans, tugging at Monty’s hair as Monty undoes his jeans. He feels loose and floaty and so close to something that he thinks he might fly apart.

When he gets the man’s cock in his mouth, Monty actually groans, closing his eyes. He let’s the man thrust into him, pull at his hair—— except.

Except Monty can feel something prickling at the back of his neck, an unwelcome feeling, a thought yet unborn. He clenches his eyes shut tighter and tries to ignore it, focusing on the way the man is stretching his mouth open, the feel of him down Monty’s throat.

The thought crystallizes in a single, terrible moment.

_What if someone is filming this._

Monty gags, and for a second the man tries to keep going before Monty all but throws himself back, trying not to wretch. He has never cared before if anyone saw him, and still doesn’t care now about anyone seeing the sorts of the thing that had been on The Tape.

But this. This satiation of his most secret need. The thought of anyone seeing him being used so thoroughly, and loving it so much—— of needing it so much. It overwhelms him. They would see it, and they would know. Know about all the terrible, empty, broken places inside of him.

The man is saying something, reaching out. Monty bats him away, and he can see the shape of a curse on the man’s lips as he tucks himself back into his pants and strides back into the crowd. Monty pulls himself against the wall, feeling shaken and awful and still so fucking empty. Still surrounded in cotton and glass and ice, and not even the sound of the bass is helping now.

 

* * *

 

Monty had first discovered Eleftheria the summer between his first and second year of university. It has a very distinct reputation, and when Monty can muster the courage to admit that’s what he needs, it’s absolutely perfect. He only goes about once a month, maybe less, not enough to be considered a regular but enough that he recognizes a few of the patrons, and only over the summers because it’s too far away from his school.

Eleftheria means freedom, and that is exactly how Monty feels when he goes there. Free.

Scipio runs the place, and he has always treated Monty kindly.

Monty doesn’t always go there for sex. Sometimes he goes to watch others, letting himself feel free and untethered in watching other people letting go so cleanly.

He doesn’t much care who picks him up there (and that’s always the way of it there, at Eleftheria, someone always picks him up. That’s how it works.)

The first few times had been rough, in every meaning of the world. Monty hadn’t known then what he liked and didn’t like, known even less then than he does now. But even when it had hurt, even when they thought he wanted pain or cruel words, even then it had been better then anything else, because afterwords they had sat with him and stroked his hair and told him how good he was, how well he had taken it, showering him with kind touches and kinder words until he had felt splayed open and then put back together again.

After his third time there, he had been sitting at the bar when Scipio approached, and Monty hadn’t known at the time that the man ran the place. He had only been a man buying Monty a drink, with large arms (perfect to hold him down) and kind eyes.

And if Monty hadn’t gone so long between visits, he might have had the walls to stop himself when Scipio asked him how he liked it and what he liked. But as it was, Monty had told him how the pain wasn’t always good but the aftermath was wonderful. And Scipio had asked follow up questions, and Monty had sipped at the wine and found himself answering honestly, unmoored by the kindness in Scipio’s voice and eyes.

And at the end of it, Scipio had waved over another woman, tall with long falls of dark hair and beautiful, pale eyes.

“This is Adrianna,” he’d said. “I think you’ll suit one another.”

And she had looked him over with a gaze like fire, and licked her lips. “Yes. I think we will,” and taken Monty’s hand to draw him into one of the back rooms.

That visit had been almost three years ago, and Monty has learned more since then, learned more about what he likes and what he wants.

None of that helps him now.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t get any better. Even when he slips out to the places where it has always been good before, the places where they know exactly what to give him and let him call them sir and tug his hair just right, it’s not—— he can’t stop the shaking, desperate feeling that someone is watching this, that this is all being caught on camera for the world to see.

He can’t shake the knowledge that he doesn’t know these people, can’t trust them. He knows, perhaps more than anyone, what his father’s name means. Knows now what people will do to ruin it, and Monty has always been the easiest way to do it.

None of this means that Monty has given up sex— far from it. It feels lately that he has been having more sex than he has since he discovered all the many uses for his dick. The Tape, for all the ways in which it had utterly ruined his life, had also catapulted him into something of a sex symbol in the London clubs, and he barely has to life a finger to pick anyone up anymore. Not that it was ever something that he struggled with.

But he can’t seem to just _let go_.

The itching under his skin is his constant companion. The entire world feels muffled, and there are times when Monty can hardly speak through the glass wall that seems to separate him from everyone else.

In desperation, he begins to pick up the ones who look dangerous. The ones who don’t give him the option of positioning, who shove him around until he is exactly where they want him, and to hell what he wants. It’s not what he needs, it’s not enough to clear his head, but it’s as close as he thinks he can get. It’s safe. Nothing that can give him away, not if all the camera’s from the Sun, the Time and the Independent were on him.

 

* * *

 

After a week in which Monty appears in the papers almost every night and Percy will hardly look at him and his Mother looking on the constant verge of tears when she tries, and mostly fails, to speak to him, Monty gets a call from his father.

It’s not a long call, and his father speaks in a cold, iron fisted tone the entire time, the kind that always means that the beating will be delivered with terrible precision for the most pain and the least visible damage. The gist of the call is that Monty is a disgrace to the family and will never make anything of himself and the least Monty can do with his useless life is try and keep from humiliating his father for the rest of the year. The ‘or else’ is implied. The sentiment that Henry Montague Sr.’s life would be simpler if Monty were to die in a gutter on his way home is also implied.

Monty spends the entire call feeling more and more distant, listening to the cold rain of his father’s voice wash over him, agreeing when his father prompts him to. Yes, father, I am aware that I am disgrace. No, father, it won’t happen again. Yes, father, I too wish that I would simply not wake up in the mornings.

When he hangs up, he feels utterly untethered, separated from the earth by a hundred miles. He puts the phone down on the hook, because their place is the sort that still uses a landline because the manor had stopped aging after the invention of electricity and his father would never deign to use Monty’s cell phone.

After a long moment, Monty pushes himself to his feet and simply starts walking. What would it be like, he wonders, if he just stopped existing. It feels like he is holding onto himself by slow inches. What if he were to let go and let his body drift apart into it’s component atoms.

He finds himself in front of the fire in the Green parlor. He isn’t entirely sure how he comes to be there, but the fire is warm and Monty feels so, so cold.

The familiar click of Malory’s paws on marble is what first alerts Monty to the fact that he has company, and when he looks up at sees Percy, his first thought is that if he were to leave behind a corporeal existence, he would never be able to see Percy coming towards him, never get to see Percy smile again.

Percy isn’t smiling now.

Monty clutches his atoms together with a force of will and a sheer desperation to never, ever let Percy see him like this.

“Percy!” he says, climbing to his feet. His face feels cool without the fire on it. “What brings you by on this fine evening?”

“We had plans,” Percy says flatly, and his mouth, his lovely and perfect mouth, is a hard line of disapproval. “Did you forget?”

Monty feels hard-pressed to remember his own name at the moment, but he shakes his head. “Certainly not! The afternoon seems to have gotten away from me though. I thought that it was earlier.” He checks his phone absently. Good lord, it’s already three pm? His father had called a little after noon. What on earth has he been doing all this time?

“Hm, yes,” Percy says. “I’ve heard that can happen when you don’t get up until noon.”

Monty draws himself up, affronted. “I’ll have you know that I was up at the ungodly hour of ten am this morning.”

Seemingly in spite of himself, Percy’s mouth twitches. “And we’re all quite proud of you.”

“As well you should be.” Monty links his hands together above his head and stretches. Is he acting normal? It’s so hard to tell. He can hardly even feel the floor beneath him, and for a minute he blinks and it’s like Percy is 1,000 feet away, 100 times the length of the Green Parlor, and yet perfectly clear.

When he drops his hands, he sees Percy’s eyes have fixed on the strip of skin between his jeans and his shirt, and Monty feels his stomach swoop pleasantly.

Percy steps forward, eyes still fixed on Monty’s hips, even after Monty drops his arms and his shirt hides his pale skin again. Monty can hear his heartbeat as Percy strides forward, intent and purposeful. Monty is suddenly, achingly, wanting. Percy looks so commanding that Monty’s knees actually go weak.

Percy’s eyes are a dark blaze, an intent fire that Monty wants desperately to immolate himself in, and for just a second, the world snaps back into blinding clarity.

Then Percy opens his mouth. “What the hell is that?”

And the world ricochets back into a distant haze at the sheer anger and disgust in Percy’s voice.

Monty is holding onto himself by the skin of his teeth as he glances down. “My stomach?”

Percy reaches out and yanks Monty’s shirt up. Monty is feeling a little dizzy.

“Careful, darling, you’ll give a boy ideas.” What a lie. Monty has been having ideas for years now. All that this will give him is something to hold close to on lonely nights, the feel of Percy’s eyes on him, Percy’s hands pulling his clothes off.

But Percy just holds Monty’s shirt up just above his belly with one hand. “This,” Percy hisses. Monty glances down, and past Percy’s arm he can see what Percy must mean. Monty has lovely violet and green and yellow bruises on his hips on varying stages of healing. Bruises from fingertips on the handle of his hip bones. Bruises from teeth over his stomach. One bruise that forms almost an entire hand print just above the cut of his jeans.

“Ah,” Monty says, and his voice sounds a long way away. “Percy, if I need to explain to you-”

“I know what they are,” Percy snaps. “Who did this?”

Monty forces himself to laugh—— does it sound as fake to Percy as it does to him? “Darling, it’s not as if I asked them their _name_.”

The growl that echoes through the room is so startling that Monty actually looks to Malory for a second, though he’s never heard such a noise from her. Except that she’s only laying down by the table, looking as calm and placid as usual. With a start, Monty looks to Percy. Percy is still glaring down at Monty’s hip.

“Uhm,” Monty begins, and falters. He licks his lips and tries again. “Percy?”

In a daze, Monty watches as Percy places a hand directly over the print on Monty’s hip, each finger falling with precision over the marks there. There’s no pain, Percy’s touch is feather-light, but Monty feels abruptly dizzy and weak. Percy’s hand looks huge on his hip, and the contrast in their coloring is striking.

Monty can feel himself slipping away, and he wrenches himself away from Percy with a gasp, because the only alternative is going to his knees and begging Percy to touch him everywhere. He’s not entirely sure that he still won’t.

Percy’s eyes fly to his, and they are as wide and startled as Monty feels.

Monty feels splayed open, pinned like an insect on a card for Percy to examine, and he can’t seem to pack his horrid, desperate feelings inside before Percy sees them. But Percy’s eyes only go hard.

“What the hell have you been getting into, Monty?”

Monty reaches inside himself for an emotion, any emotion, and comes up with anger. “It’s none of your goddamn business.”

Percy recoils like Monty had slapped him, and over by the table, Malory raises her head. When Percy and Monty only stare at one another, she lays her head back down on her paws.

The moment stretches between them, as thick and heavy as molasses.

Then Percy makes a hoarse noise that sounds almost like a laugh put through a blender. “Right.”

For a horrible, terrible moment, Percy looks hurt and lost, and Monty wants to reach out and smooth the downward tilt to his mouth. Then that mouth goes tight, and Percy looks right at Monty.

“If you want to go and whore yourself out every night, that’s none of my business.”

The world goes gray, as if Percy had slapped him. Monty would rather Percy had slapped him. Percy has never, not in all the years of Monty knowing him, said anything like that to Monty. It’s not like the word is unfamiliar. His father has used it, even Felicity has said it, in the same way the he calls her a humorless prude. Not intended to hurt. This is intended to hurt.

Monty can only gape at him, and he feels the world yawning beneath his feet. He can’t muster anger. Can’t muster anything. “I don’t,” God, he has to pull himself together.

“What difference does it make to you?” he asks. Is his voice shaking? He puts more force into it, more volume, trying to hide the way he just wants to lay down on the floor and die. “You don’t own me,” and even as he says it’s he knows it’s a mistake. It’s been so long, and now all he can think is- what if. The thought-image of himself, on his knees before Percy. Of Percy, tugging at his hair and giving Monty orders. Of, god, Percy putting a collar on him. He wants Percy to own him, wants it so badly he can feel it in his bones. His knees ache with the desire to feel them pressed to floor, his scalp tingles with the thought of Percy’s fingers.

Percy clenches his hands on his own hair and Monty follows them with his own eyes. Is he still standing? He thinks that he is. “God, Monty, just _shut up_!”

When he thinks back on it later, Monty understands that the situation was a long time in coming. That the combination of no outlet, the building pressure, the conversation with his father, the reckless remark of Percy owning him and the tailspin it had put in his thoughts, it all added up to what happened next.

But in that moment, Percy’s words hit him like a hammer, a gut punch of an order that strikes through the haze on Monty’s thoughts and makes him utterly, terrible weak. He couldn’t speak now if a million pounds had been on the table, if his life had depended on it. His knees feel weak, wavering. Percy is still talking, but Monty can’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears, as loud and drowning as the bass in a terrible nightclub.

He feels pressure on his hand, under his palm, and he’s startled to see Malory under his fingertips. Percy is her charge, is it so bad that someone else’s service dog seeks him out?

“Monty?” Percy’s voice is so sweet, even in anger. Monty turns to it like a flower, blooming under his touch. “Monty, good lord, are you high?” Even the disgust in Percy’s voice feels like a balm, and Monty sways towards him.

He blinks blurry eyes and Percy’s mouth is tilted downwards again, and that’s suddenly all that matters in the world. “No,” he forces past his swollen tongue, his dizzy head. He reaches out a finger and gently smooths the line up, feeling the soft texture of Percy’s lips under his fingertips, feels his fingertips tingle with the touch.

“Monty?” Percy says, and now he just sounds concerned. Monty can feel his name on Percy’s lips, feel that concern under his own skin and, oh, it’s lovely. When Percy reaches out a hand, Monty turns into it, letting Percy’s hand slip from his forehead into his hair. He wants Percy to tug, to yank.

There is a moment, with Percy’s eyes on him and Percy’s hands on him, where everything seems so utterly clear, and Monty’s knees go weak with it. He lets himself drop down, feels the marble under his knees like a balm.

“Monty, what the fuck?” Percy snaps. And it’s not as though Percy never swears. Percy can swear with the best of them, Monty should know. But here, now, it feels so deliciously indecent, and he hears himself let out a low noise, utterly out of his control. Percy’s hand is still in his hair, tangled in his curls. Monty sways forward, lets his head fall against the meat of Percy’s thigh. He feels, in that moment, like nothing but want. He doesn’t dare reach for Percy, it’s not his place, but he turns his head into it, let’s his nose dig into Percy’s thigh until Percy’s fingers clench in his hair and Monty whines.

Percy let’s him go and steps back and Monty almost crashes headfirst into the marble floor. His hands make desperate, grasping motions at his side, but he can’t seem to reach out. He feels cold, ice filling his veins because Percy is leaving.

Then Percy’s hands are on his shoulders, stopping him from hitting the floor.

“Percy,” Monty gasps. “Don’t leave,” it feels desperately important, and he grasps the hem of Percy’s stupid button up, feeling the fabric in his hand in perfect clarity, the only real thing in the world.

He can hear Percy shushing him, feels Malory’s cold nose on his neck, but everything is distant and floating. “Don’t leave,” he says again.

“I’m right here,” Percy says, and the feeling of his hands in Monty’s hair is so good Monty wants to cry. Something shifts, and he can feel Malory close and warm along his side. His head is on Percy’s thigh, and his hair is sliding between Percy’s fingers and it’s wonderful and terrible and real.

Feeling dazed and overwhelmed, Monty turns his face into Percy’s thigh, nosing gently at the seam between thigh and hip.

Percy makes a choked noise, but he doesn’t throw Monty off. For a moment, his hand tightens in Monty’s hair, impossible good, but then his hand relaxes and Monty loses himself in the gentle rhythm of Percy’s fingers, the heat and hardness of Percy’s thigh under his cheek, the clean smell of Percy, Percy, _Percy._

 

* * *

 

The first thing Monty is aware of is the crackle-pop of the fire beginning to die down. It’s a strange, out of place sound. He can feel fingers in his hair, which is nice, and a warm body under his head which is also nice. He turns his head up to the light and opens his eyes.

When he meets Percy’s dark gaze, concerned and irritated in equal measure, Monty throw himself back and almost smashes his head open on the marble floors.

“Ah,” Percy says, and Monty can hear a wealth of emotions in that single syllable. “You’re awake.”

Monty swallows. “Yes.”

Percy pushes himself back so that he rests on the hearth, leaning back against the wall of the fireplace. He clicks his fingers absently and Malory goes to him easily, lying down on the other side from where the fire is a hair more then dying embers.

“Do you care to tell me what that was about?” Percy asks, and his voice is so measured and controlled that Monty almost shakes from it. More than anything, he hates how it reminds him of his father. Henry Montague III always gets quiet with his rage as well.

“Not really,” Monty says, trying for flippant and missing by a mile. He’s still only just coming out of it too. God help him, he feels better than he has in weeks. A simple touch of Percy’s hand on his head, of drifting away, away with Percy beside him and it’s as good as an entire night of sex.

Percy just watches him for a second, and in each moment that goes by, Monty expects him to get angry, to walk out because this is a bridge too far, Monty has exceeded even Percy Newton’s endless patience. He watches Percy’s hand, resting on Malory’s head, because watching Percy’s face is too difficult.

“I thought, maybe, you were having a flashback,” Percy says. He’s absently scratching Malory’s ears, seemingly unaware he’s doing so.

Monty goes utterly still. It’s a defense mechanism he’s nearly perfected. It never helps. He opens his mouth, and nothing comes out.

“When I shouted, I mean. You made this face, like,” Percy hesitates, and Monty wants to throw himself across the space between them and put his hands over Percy’s mouth. And not even for the usual reasons. He doesn’t think he can stand to hear what his face had looked like, to hear Percy line up all of Monty’s humiliations like ducks at a shooting gallery. Monty sneaks a glance at Percy’s face, enough to watch Percy swallow, to follow the line of his throat as his adam’s apple bobs.

“But then when you,” When he had dropped his his knees, when he had all but begged for Percy’s touch, when he had turned his face into Percy’s leg like a dog in heat. Monty closes his eyes, feeling humiliation burn through his veins like fire. He thinks he might die from it. He thinks he might welcome the death.

Percy reaches out and tilts Monty’s chin up, forcing their eyes to meet. Percy’s eyes are wide and warm and worried, none of the anger or the disgust that Monty had expected.

“Monty, tell me your father didn’t— that he never—”

Between the look in Percy’s eyes and the cool feeling of Percy’s fingers on his skin, it takes Monty a moment to figure out what Percy is asking.

“No!” he blurts out, his own shock and disgust breaking through the humiliation. “No, never!” He shakes his head, regretting the loss of Percy’s fingers on his skin, but needing Percy to know, to believe him.

Percy let’s out a breath, and Monty hadn’t realized that his shoulders were tense until they relax. “Right. Thank God. I thought, for a second.”

“It’s not like that,” Monty blurts, and reaches out like he can take the words back with his bare hands. It’s the perfect opening, any second Percy ask, will have reason to ask ‘then what is it like?’

But he doesn’t.

For a long moment, the silence stretches between them.

“Does that happen often?” Percy asks, and his tone is careful. Monty wants to push back, to fight.

But he remembers being on the other side of this. Before Malory, before university, Monty can recall the first afternoon after he’d seen Percy’s epilepsy firsthand, the way he has so desperate for any information that Percy would give him, the way Percy had been so reluctant to say any of it aloud. He owes Percy some sort of explanation.

“Often enough,” he says, and he doesn’t even clench his teeth around the words.

“What usually helps?”

 _Getting strangers to tie me up and call me a good boy_ , Monty emphatically does not say.

He runs his fingers through his hair, remembers the feeling of Percy’s fingers there instead, and what comes out is more harsh than he intends. “God, Percy, do we have to talk about this?”

Percy’s face closes up, as certain as a door slamming shut. “No. I guess we don’t.” He pushes himself to his feet, Malory getting to hers a second later. “I’ll see myself out. Glad I was able to help with you,” he waves a dismissive hand, as utterly eloquent as a knife in the ribs, “ _whatever_.”

Monty watches him walk away, and feels sick.

 

* * *

 

Monty is almost pathetically relieved when Percy still comes to see him the next day. He’s lying, despondent, on the chaise in the Mural Room when Percy comes in.

“Well, don’t you look utterly miserable,” Percy says, and Monty almost falls off the chaise to sit upright and stare at him.

“Percy?”

Percy grins at him, and in the first time since the Tape, he doesn’t look angry or disgusted. It’s a bit baffling, really, since Monty had all but thrown himself at Percy the day before.

“I thought we might go see a movie,” Percy says. “I hear there’s a new one of those terrible action movies you love. With the cars.”

“They all have cars, Percy, that’s what makes it a good action movie.”

Percy shakes his head. “If you say so. They have a showing at three, I thought maybe we could get dinner after.”

Monty’s treacherous heart flips over at how much it sounds like a date. Which is absurd, because if he and Percy counted every instance of a film and food as a date, they would be practically engaged by this point.

“That sounds perfect,” Monty says. He glances down at himself. He looks absolutely dreadful, dressed to sulk around the house rather then going out. “I’ll have to change though.”

“Don’t bother,” Percy says, sounds positively gleeful.

Monty gapes at him. “I can’t go out like this!” His jeans aren’t even tailored. His shirt is worn-soft and has the logo for a dreadful band he will never admit he likes. “What if someone sees me.”

“Ah, ah.” Percy pulls his hands out from behind his back. Monty had assumed that Percy was practicing his proper school boy poster. “I thought of that.” In three quick steps, he is within Monty’s space, and Monty only has a second to blink up at him before Percy drops a blue snapback onto his head.

“There you go!” Percy says. “Monty who?”

Monty cranes his head to look at himself in the mirror over the mantle. “I look like a pleb!”

“That’s rather the entire point. The paparazzi will never recognize the dignified son of an Earl in that getup.”

Monty pulls the brim down over his eyes. “Yes, I am truly the master of disguise,” he drawls.

“Ah, quite right,” Percy says. “I almost forgot.” He tips Monty’s chin up with his knuckle, and when Monty is struggling to remember how breathing works, leans in close. Monty is about the throw caution, dignity and his sense of self-preservation all to the wind and kiss him when Percy slides a pair of sunglasses onto his face.

“You’re joking,” Monty says. He’s aiming for ‘flatly sarcastic’ and thinks it might come out around ‘breathlessly besotted.’

“You look smashing, darling.”

“You’re an ass,” Monty says, shoving Percy. God, he must look an utter tool.

Percy shoves him back. “I’m a genius. Shall we go?” He holds out his arm, and Monty takes it, feeling light and giddy and full of laughter.

“You’ll have to lead,” he says. “I can’t see a thing.” He pauses for a dramatic effect. “You know, on account of my wearing sunglasses indoors.”

“Yes, Monty, I got the joke.”

Monty is actually forced to remove the sunglasses after the third time he almost walks into a door frame, and by the third time Percy is laughing too hard to be of any use in preventative measures.

“You are utterly useless as a guide,” he tells Percy. He crouches down to be eye level with Malory. “What about you? Can you be a guide dog?”

Malory licks his face. Monty grins, and wipes his face on his sleeve. “You’re both dead to me,” he says as he stands.

When he starts to lead them to the garage, Percy puts out a hand to stop him. “Your disguise does a fat lot of good if you’re spotted in your signature porche.”

“I’ve actually traded up,” Monty says. “It’s my signature Tesla now.”

“Oh?”

“Better for the environment,” Monty says.

“You’re full of shit,” Percy replies, laughing.

Monty tries to look affronted, but breaks before he can even get a word out. “I really do have a Tesla now!” he protests.

“Alright then,” Percy says. “Do you have any car worth less then the GDP of Moldova?”

Monty clicks his tongue against his teeth. “What on earth is a Moldova? It sounds like a cocktail.”

“It’s a country in—nevermind. It’s a small country. It’s near Romania.”

“Well, I can’t make any promises in relation to their GDP, but we can always take Hans’ lorry.”

Percy makes a face, but whether it’s at Hans or the idea of driving in a lorry, Monty isn’t sure. “And is Hans going to be okay with that?”

Hans works in the kitchen and is, in fact, not okay with that. It takes a fair bit of flirtation and a promise to take Hans for a ride in the Tesla before he agrees, and Percy looks to be in a bad mood by the end of it.

“Cheer up, darling,” Monty says, slipping the sunglasses back on. With them on, he can pretend that Percy isn’t frowning. “Let’s see how fast we can get this car to go.”

The answer turns out to be not very bloody fast at all, but even that has Percy white-knuckling the door handle. Malory is in the back, tongue lolling out of her mouth as the scenery passes by and looking quite pleased with herself.

“Some day I really will get that sidecar for the bike,” Monty promises. One of the great tragedies of his life is that he had gotten his beloved motorcycle some years after Percy had acquired Malory, and as such Monty has never gotten to have a spin on the bike with Percy pressed along every inch of his back, arms tight around his waist.

“Yes, the thought of you on a motorcycle never fails to calm me down,” Percy says, sarcasm dripping from his words.

Monty rolls down the window and lets the bit of sun through the clouds and the fresh air and Percy’s presence wash over him.

 

* * *

 

The movie is splendid, with just enough explosions and car chases to keep Monty happy and few enough shootouts to keep Percy happy.

The dinner afterwords is less splendid. There is a burger place right near the cinema that they like to frequent after a movie, casual enough that Monty never gets his hopes up but nice enough that he can sometimes let himself pretend. Sometimes

They stop Percy at the door.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t allow pets in the restaurant.”

Percy goes tense, in the way that he always does when someone complains about Malory. It makes Monty furious, because even though Percy is always polite and kind to anyone who asks, Monty knows how much he hates having to talk about it.

“She’s a service animal,” Percy says, just as polite as Monty had known he would be. He indicates her blue vest.

The hostess looks from Malory, calm and placid at Percy’s side, to Percy. “You don’t look blind to me.”

Percy opens his mouth, and Monty pushes forward. “For God’s sake. Are you always this much of an idiot, or are you having an off day? Obviously, service dogs aren’t just for the blind, and if you ever left this godforsaken restaurant, you’d know that. So you can either seat us, immediately, or introduce us to your manager.”

The woman ducks her head, face scarlet, and ushers them forward.

Percy catches Monty’s elbow as he goes to follow her. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Monty says, smiling. “I wanted to.”

Percy grits. “Let me be more specific. I really wish you hadn’t done that.”

“Why on earth not? If she’s going to be a bore about it—”

“You’ve made a scene,” Percy hisses, and Monty looks to see that he has, in fact, made a bit of a scene. Well, at least no one has their cameras out.

“She made a scene herself,” Monty says, and tugs out of Percy’s grip. “Come on, I’m starved.”

The hostess hands them their menus with the general air of one who hopes they’ll both choke on their food, and Malory makes herself comfortable under the table. Monty truly and honestly doesn’t understand why anyone makes a fuss over her. She never bothers anyone, and she makes Percy’s life better in so many ways.

He gives Percy through the ordering process to calm down, and when their waitress takes their menus away, he leans across the table. “I’m glad you came to get me. I feel like I hardly get to leave the house any more.”

“Except for the six nights this week you went out to the club,” Percy says, but Monty can tell by the twitch in the corner of his mouth that he’s already softening.

“Except for that, of course,” Monty those examples away. “That hardly counts, it was dreadful.”

Fuck. He takes a large gulp of water.

“So, leaving your house only counts if it’s enjoyable?” Percy asks.

“Of course,” Monty replies. “Why else would anyone do anything?”

“Why indeed?” Percy says, but his eyes are serious, considering.

They’re both almost halfway through their food and eating in relative silence because it is already difficult to eat a burger with dignity, and harder still when one is trying to maintain a conversation, when Percy says,

“What about enjoyable activities inside the house?” and Monty almost chokes to death on a piece of lettuce. Percy waits patiently while Monty coughs, and then again when he drowns almost his entire glass of water.

“What about them?” Monty asks.

“Do they count?” Percy is leaning towards him, and his eyes are so dark.

“Oh,” Monty says, and then pulls himself together. “Of course, darling!” He has no idea what they’re talking about.

Percy leans back in his seat and looks satisfied, and it’s a look that sticks with Monty for the rest of the day and well into the evening.

 

* * *

 

 That night, Monty risks a visit to Eleftheria, because the alternative is getting into another one of his moods and doing something worse. Like crawling to Percy and begging to suck his dick.

He keeps the hat and the glasses, and it feels thrillingly like Percy had dressed him for this.

For this, he does take the bike. He hates the risk of leading the paparazzi to the only safe haven he knows, but he takes every back alley and wrong turn and roundabout he knows of before he pulls up, and eve then he parks his bike two blocks away.

“Haven’t seen you here in awhile,” Scipio greets. Bless the man, he is already gesturing for a glass of whiskey to be poured.

“I haven’t been around,” Monty replies easily, and the way that Scipio tilts an eyebrow tells Monty that not only has Scipio seen the papers, he has also seen The Tape.

Monty downs the drink in one go, and gestures for the bartender to pour another. Scipio reaches out and covers the mouth of the glass. “You know the rules. If you want to play tonight, it’s just the one drink.”

Monty gives the whiskey a longing glance. He wants the alcohol, God he does, but he needs to- Scipio calls it play, but there are times when it feels like the most serious thing in the world. Certainly in Monty’s world.

He makes a disgusted noise and pushes the glass away. Scipio grins at him. “Thought you might say that.”

Together, he and Monty turn and look out over the crowd. It’s better lit then most clubs, but not well enough that the shadows aren’t thrown back and forth in interesting ways.

“Who do you recommend tonight?” Monty asks. He rarely asks, usually preferring to get by on his own merits. And also because having Scipio suggest which of the other patrons Monty would be suited to always makes him feel like a John.

Scipio grins. “Have you met Theo?”

Monty has not.

Theo is a tall and lovely woman, with her head completely shaved and dark, dark eyes. She gives Monty a heavy-lidded, all-over look that is already putting Monty exactly where he wants to be.

“You will call me Ma’m,” she says, and Monty swallows.

“Yes, Ma’m.”

She smiles, long and slow. “Good,” and Monty feels it like gold down his spine. She leads Monty to one of the backrooms. “Kneel.”

Monty knows as soon as his knees hit the floor that this is going to be wrong, wrong, wrong. He finds his eyes flicking to the corners, looking for the camera. He finds himself look up at Theo, meeting her eyes even though he can usually never stand to do that when he gets like this. He needs to see if he can sense deception in her.

When she tells him to close his eyes, Monty wants to tell her no, and the conflicting urge of wanting to obey and a desire to bolt like a scared rabbit are almost tearing him apart.

He jumps when she grabs at his chin. “Open them,” she says. When Monty opens his eyes, she gives him a long, measured look.

“Color?”

“Green,” Monty chokes out. She gives him a filthy look.

“Tell the truth,” she commands. Monty slumps.

“Red.” It feels like shame. It feels like failure. What is he going to do, if he can’t even have this? He had thought, surely, that the problem was with the other clubs, the other people. The problem was that he couldn’t get away to Eleftheria.

But even here, he can’t get past this terrible, desperate feeling that someone is watching this, capturing his most vulnerable self on camera to share with the world. Monty has never been good at hiding his soft parts- he feels some day as if he is made entirely of soft parts, but he can’t bare to have this one exposed.

“Good boy,” Theo whispers, and draws him close. “Thank you telling the truth.” For a moment, he wants to relax into her embrace, let her comfort him. But even that is too much, too cloying. Too exposed.

“I can’t.” He tears himself free. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” Theo replies. “What do you need?”

Monty feels the desperate urge to laugh bubble up inside of him. He’d thought that this was what he needed.

“I don’t know,” he says, and it sounds as brittle as glass. He pushes himself to his feet, Theo helping him with careful hands. “But let’s start with a drink.”

Theo advices against it. Scipio, who watches them emerge far too early, advices against it. Monty doesn’t give a single fuck.

 

* * *

 

 Monty wakes up in his own bed with a splitting headache and the distinct urge to die.

“Well.” The voice splits through the room like an ax. “Aren’t you a sorry sight.”

Monty jerks, and the sudden motion almost makes him throw up, his stomach roiling in protest. “Percy.”

It’s not a question. Hungover he may be, but he would know Percy’s voice anywhere, would respond to it in any situation. Would follow him though the underworld like Eurydice to Orpheus.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, but it comes out in a muffled gargle. Percy sighs, the heavy breath that Monty is accustomed to from anyone who has the misfortune to spend a lot of time with Monty. Monty feels his bed dip, feels Percy’s hands in his hair, soothing and wonderful.

Monty forces his eyes open. “What are you doing here?” he asks again, more coherently.

Percy doesn’t look at him when he replies, and Monty feels that sinking feeling again. He’s gone and ruined it. “I didn’t see your name in the paper last night, and I came to offer my congratulations. Apparently prematurely.”

Monty feels sick, and he’s only partly sure it’s the liquor. He closes his eyes because it’s better then seeing the look on Percy’s face.

Percy’s fingers continue to card through his hair. Then, for just a split second, they tighten.

“Monty,” Percy says, and there is a snap in his voice that isn’t quite anger. “Would you get me a glass of water?”

Monty’s head is pounding, his stomach is rolling, and he’s not entirely sure that he won’t fall over the second he stands up. It’s doesn’t even occur to him not to.

“Ugh,” he says, staggering to the washroom. Then, with more feeling “Ugggh.”

There is a glass of water that the maid refreshes daily just off the sink. It’s for rinsing his teeth after brushing, but as Monty is a casual kind of gent, he generally just splashes it into his mouth with his hands. So at least the glass is clean, he thinks as he fills it up.

“There you go,” he says, pressing it into Percy’s hands and dropping down onto the bed beside him. Percy is strangely frozen, dark eyes wide with surprise, but Monty can’t imagine why. Instead of ponder the matter further, he drops his head onto Percy’s shoulder.

“I,” Percy rarely falters, but his voice trips over itself for a moment. “Thank you.” Monty smiles and turns his face into Percy’s shoulder, nudging the fabric of Percy’s shirt with his nose.

“Here, sit up,” Percy says, and Monty makes a disagreeing noise into Percy’s shoulder.

“Monty. Sit. Up.”

When Monty sits up and meets Percy’s eyes, Percy licks his lips. Monty follows the motion of his tongue, feeling dazed.

“Drink this.” Percy pushes the glass into Monty’s hands, and watches with avid eyes as Monty takes and downs it. “Good,” Percy says, and swallows.

Monty smiles at him, feeling absolutely wonderful.

“Right.” Percy stands, so quickly that he almost upsets Monty off the bed. “Right, I should go. Let you, sober up. And everything.”

Monty slumps back down onto the bed, feeling strange again. Watching Percy leave is always a bit of a tragedy— except perhaps for the view— but he feels even more desolate now then usual.

Percy stops at the door, and looks back at Monty. His face is open, and he looks surprised and speculative.

“Monty. Please don’t go out tonight.” His hand tightens on the door frame. “Please.”

It’s no trouble at all for Monty to agree, and the smile that Percy gives him is utterly worth it.

 

* * *

 

What does he usually do on the evenings when he doesn’t go out? Monty honestly thinks he may have forgotten. It’s only been two weeks since The Tape but it feel like it has become his constant state of being, the itch under his skin that compels him to seek out riskier and risker places and partners and is increasingly unsatisfied with what he finds.

Monty scroll aimlessly through Twitter on his phone, ignoring DMs and replying to other people’s tweets when he feels it’s appropriate. Percy disapproves of Monty picking fights on the internet, but Percy also has a mere 300 followers on twitter, so what does he know. (This honestly baffles Monty, who had been Percy’s first official follow. Who wouldn’t want to follow Percy? His selfies alone should be attracting followers by the hundreds, and that isn’t even taking into account the wit and charm he can put in just 140 characters.)

Monty contemplates going down to the kitchen to flirt with Hans in the kitchen, but he rejects the idea quickly. No one believes this of him, but he has some sense of self-preservation, and he knows better then to get involved with the staff. Especially the ones who serve him food.

Finally, he ends up throwing his phone down an going to bed at the unthinkable hour of ten pm. He can go over to Percy’s apartment tomorrow. Better then the dreariness of today.

 

* * *

 

 The next day dawns cold and dreary. Metaphorically speaking. Monty is up early enough to attend breakfast, which is an insufferable exercise wherein he and his mother sit at a table built for twenty and eat their eggs without making eye contact.

“Are you doing well, Henry?” Mother asks, and Monty tries to hide a wince. God, how he hates being called Henry.

“Perfectly well, Mother,” he replies. It feels like a small victory and a great loss. See, see how good a son I can be? See how small a box I can fit myself in? How much smaller before I cannot breath?

“I am glad to hear it.”

Silence.

“And you, Mother?”

His mother still won’t look at him. Monty misses Felicity, with a sudden fierceness that shocks him. They had never gotten along while she was at home, but she was an ally. Someone to stand shoulder to shoulder with against the tide of traditionalism that was the Montagues.

His mother lays her napkins in her lap. “Well enough. Lady Darby’s eldest is having her coming out party in just a few weeks. She’s invited us both.”

Monty very much doubts that Lady Darby had willingly invited Monty. He closes his mouth tight around the coming out joke that wants to spring, fully formed, from his lips. “I would be honored, of course.” He would rather jump into the Thames in his best jacket.

“I already let them know we would be there.”

Of course.

Monty is about to say something, probably something stupid, by the feel of it behind his teeth, when Gerald comes in with the paper. Monty knows immediately that something is wrong, as his mother goes white when she sees it.

“Don’t bring that rubbish to the table, for God’s sake,” she chokes out, and she must be in a dreadful state to take the Lord’s name in vain like that. She pushes back her chair and strides out of the room without even a backwards glance.

Monty gets only a glimpse of the paper, enough to see his own face, stripped with the lights of a club, before Gerald sweeps it off of the table. Gerald nods to Monty, and Monty can’t tell if the look in his eyes is pity or disgust.

Monty always knew that getting up this early was a mistake.

He shoves his chair back from the table. “I’m going out. Tell my mother.” Not that she’ll care.

Monty sends a quick text to Percy- ‘is it alright if I come over?’

He gets a reply back immediately - ‘ who are you and what have you done with Monty?’ And then, in case Monty has missed the joke ‘the real Monty would never be awake at such an hour.’

Monty smiles down at the phone. ‘Damnation youve caught me.’/ ‘im holding your friend hostage- I want his weight in gold before he will be returned’

‘That’s alright. He doesn’t weigh that much’

‘Hey!’ Monty types in rapid protest.

He can almost hear Percy’s laugh, see the way his mouth will turn up at the corners, his eyes crinkle up in amusement.

‘Come over whenever’ Percy sends after a moment.

Monty’s fingers hover over his screen. After a moment, he types ‘I didn’t go out last night. The story in the paper is from earlier’

The pause of Percy’s typing is agonizing. He’s not even sure why it’s so important that Percy know this, he’s done things Percy disapproves of in the past. But in this instance, it feels vitally important.

‘I believe you.’ Percy types back. He even adds a period, to show how serious it is.

Monty thinks of a dozen replies, thank you, that’s good, <3 <3 <3, I love you. He sends none of them.

‘Ill be there in twenty minutes’ he sends.

Percy replies ‘<3’ and Monty actually feels a little weak at it.

 

* * *

 

Monty is halfway into his drive when he phone rings. He flips on the cars bluetooth without looking at the ID, assuming it’s Percy asking him to pick up a pizza or something on the way in.

“Hello, darling,” he says, “what can I do for you?”

“You can start,” comes his fathers ice cold voice “by telling me why your picture was in the paper again today when I expressly forbade you from making another spectacle of yourself.”

Monty slams on the breaks, as if that can somehow throw the last minute into reverse and stop him from picking up this call.

“Father,” he says.

“I told you not to go out, Henry,” his father says. Monty cuts the car over to the side of the road. He knows from bitter experience that driving while speaking with his father will end terribly.

“I have stayed in since that call!” Well, technically he’d gone to Eleftheria the night of the call, but no one had known about that so it didn’t count. “The papers used an old photo.”

“Ah.” It’s truly amazing, the amount of disdain that his father can squeeze into a single syllable. “How fortunate for them that they had so many at their disposal.”

Monty closes his eyes. The sun is out today, he can feel it’s warmth on his face, see red on the inside of his eyelids. He focuses on that.

“Yes, father.”

He focuses on his breath, in, out. His father is still speaking.

“I understand.”

His father being elected to Parliament was the best thing that ever happened to him, as it got his father out of the house and half-way across the country. But it has also made the stakes so much higher.

“Monty, if this happens again, we will start discussing your future. And whether you still have one in this family.”

Monty sucks in a breath, then holds it for a moment, hoping his father hadn’t heard. He lets it out again in slow, incremental amounts. “I understand,” he says again. He does. The phone clicks off.

Monty sits in the car for a moment, staring out at the English countryside. His future stretches out in front of him. A life of playing the dutiful son, a life he has never once succeeded at. Or a life of poverty. Not one marketable skill to his name. He still has a year left at St. Andrews, and while his marks aren’t bad, they aren’t good enough to carry him if his family’s money dries up.

After a long, silent moment, Monty draws in a deep breath and puts the car back into drive. Parking outside Percy’s place is it’s usual nightmare, but this is Monty’s least expensive car and in the end it only looks a little out of place on the street.

Percy’s place is on the third floor, and even after the year and a half since Percy moved in, it still feels like visiting a foreign world. It’s something from a tv show, the little stairs and the little numbers on the door. It’s adorable.

Monty had expressed this opinion to Percy exactly once, and never again.

He doesn’t bother knocking, because he’s already told Percy he’s coming and this is why Percy gave him a key in the first place.

Percy is curled up on the couch reading when Monty comes in.

“You’re later then I expected,” he says without looking up.

Monty closes the door. There is always a moment, however brief, that he feels out of place in this place that is so intimately Percy’s. In the best way. It’s like walking into Percy’s heart, every inched of it etched with Percy’s personality, his charm and intelligence and sensibility.

Monty has no such place of his own, even his bedroom the careful product of an interior designer from the 1800s or some other such dreadfully dreary year. He’s not sure he would have enough personality to fill such a place anyway, or if all the empty parts of himself would be left exposed on blank walls.

“Monty?” Percy is looking at him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Monty lies. “Smashing.”

Percy stands up, and his feet are bare. Monty feels strangely focused on that. They look vulnerable on the wood floor. Is this how Victorian men had felt? Undone by the arch of the sole, the curve of the ankle? He wants to drop to his knees and cup Percy’s foot in his hands, trace the fine bones with his hands and mouth.

“Now I know you’re lying,” Percy laughs. “You only say you’re smashing when you feel dreadful.”

Damnation.

“I think it’s cute,” Percy continues, and Monty’s heart trips over. “Like you want to say that you feel great, but you end up saying that you feel smashed to pieces.”

“It’s nothing,” Monty says, waving it away. “Just a quick chat with my father. Nothing to worry about.”

Percy studies his face. “About this morning’s paper?”

Monty feels gutpunched. Percy had said that he believed him.

“I didn’t,” god, Percy has to know. “It’s a lie.”

“I know,” Percy reaches out and, God, folds Monty into a hug. “I believe you. I trust you.”

His arms are around Monty. He has his fingers in Monty’s hair. His smell, his touch, the soft fabric of his t-shirt and the softer touch of his bare arms surround Monty, and he melts into it.

“Why?” Monty asks Percy’s shoulder. “I haven’t earned it.”

Percy’s arms tighten. His hand tightens in Monty’s hair, holding him in place. It’s quickly becoming a problem for Monty and he is about to ruin a perfectly innocent hug with his own fucking issues.

“Because you’re my best friend. Because I love you.” Percy’s voice breaks on the last word, and Monty’s heart goes with it. Percy has said it before. Hell, Monty has said it before. But every time it hurts like fire because Percy will never mean it the way that Monty wants him too.

He pulls away, and it feels as though he leaves something of himself behind in the circle of Percy’s arms. “I love you too,” he tries for a smile. Percy will never know how true it is.

Percy is still watching him, and he thinks that Percy looks a bit flushed, but it might be the lighting. Percy’s apartment has terrible lighting.

“Monty,” Percy says slowly, thoughtfully. It’s the look he has before he proposes a dreadful, fantastic idea. The kind that is bound to get them in terrible trouble but which Percy can almost always get them back out of. Percy’s kind of trouble is always much more sophisticated then Monty’s.

Then Percy’s face clears, goes firm. “Monty, would you grab that key for me?” He gestures at a key on the table. It’s strangely isolated, the table cleared of it’s usual clutter so that only the key sits on it, stark against the wood.

“Alright?” The key is old fashioned, the kind that could unlock a hope chest or the doors to an ancient castle. The doors to a hidden secret. He hands it out to Percy.

Percy swallows, and folds Monty’s hands around the key. Monty’s pulse quickens as Percy’s hand briefly closes around his own.

“I’ve been doing some googling,” Percy says, and he won’t look at Monty.

Monty feels his stomach drop in one terrible whoosh. Had Percy seen more photos? Had there been another tape? Is he about to end the friendship, to call it off in one terrible fell stroke?

“And I have a theory. And part of my theory is,” Percy stops to clear his throat, “is that this is something you didn’t want me to know.”

Oh God. Is there a tape somewhere where Monty says Percy’s name? Does Percy _know_.

“I. God, this is more awkward then I thought.” Percy moves to the couch and sits. “Here, sit down.”

Monty would really rather stand. That’s how men face their executions right? Standing?

He moves to the couch, and when he’s about to sit next to Percy, he feels Percy’s hand hot on his shoulder.

“No.” Percy’s voice carries like a lash. “On the floor.”

Oh. God.

Monty lets himself slide to the floor, to his knees. It feels almost right, to be looking up at Percy like this. This, he realizes, this is how men face the executions.

“So.” The color is high in Percy’s cheeks. “The key is for you. You can let it go whenever you want. And I stop. I promise. But,” his voice cracks. “For as long as you’re holding that key. I’m going to tell you what to do. And you’re going to do it.”

Monty isn’t quite sure what his body does. It’s like all of his blood rushes both to his face and directly away from his face and he makes a noise like he’s dying.

“What do you think of that?” Percy asks, and his voice is noticeably higher then usual.

Monty can’t speak. He can’t agree, it’s too damning. He’s fairly certain that if he opens his mouth, all that will emerge is yes and please. He can’t say no because. Well. Saying no is not on the table.

He just doesn’t know Percy wants out of this? An afternoon of googling, and now Percy wants to put Monty on his knees? A theory, he had said. Is that all this is, testing a theory? Seeing how far Monty will let himself be pushed?

If it’s Percy doing the pushing, there is no answer. To the ends of the earth.

He looks down at the key in his hand. He opens his fingers and studies it, it’s curves and dips and the strange color of it. It suddenly feels as valuable and heavy as gold. He closes his fingers around it, deliberately. Then he looks back at Percy.

“Right.” Percy’s voice is shaking ever so slightly. “Right. Good.”

Monty shivers.

“Oh,” Percy breathes. And then, “Oh, Monty.” He reaches out to cup Monty’s face. Monty leans into the touch. He already feels that wonderful feeling, the complete absolution of responsibility, and it’s better then anything. It’s Percy. He can trust Percy.

Percy withdraws his hand, and Monty feels it’s absence keenly. Percy taps his fingers against his lips, and Monty watches the motion helplessly. He wants to trace it’s path with his own fingers, with his mouth.

Percy leans back on the couch, casually crossing one leg. He still has his hand against his mouth, considering. Considering Monty. “What do you want, Monty?” His stutter is gone. All hesitation is gone. He sounds perfectly in control, perfectly composed.

Monty opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. It’s too horrid to contemplate, letting all those thoughts and wants and desperate desires spill out. And the thought of Percy hearing it, of Percy knowing. He had barely been able to talk about it with Scipio, who dealt with people more hardcore then Monty could ever dream of being.

He shakes his head, and he can almost feel tears brimming at the corners of his eyes, the twin urges to do as Percy asked and to never let Percy know tearing at him.

“I can’t,” he whispers, after an agonizing moment of trying to force words past his parched throat. Hes shaking with it, with the knowledge that he’s already failed. Percy’s gaze is heavy, speculative. Any second, he’s going to start laughing, reveal that this was a joke. But no, Percy would never do that, never be so deliberately cruel.

It’s more likely that Percy will stand, declare that this has all been a mistake, and walk out. Monty tightens his grip on the key at the thought. He sees Percy’s eyes follow the motion, feels the way that his own breath is quickening.

“That’s alright,” Percy says. He settles his hand back on Monty’s head, petting him gently. “I shouldn’t have asked so broad a question. Do you like this?” He tugs lightly at Monty’s hair, and Monty hmms a delighted reply.

For a long moment, they just sit there. When Percy nudges at his head, he leans it against Percy’s knee and just lets himself float away under the gentle sensation, the feeling of the floor under his legs. Everything in the world feels distant and unimportant.

“Have you eaten recently?” Percy asks. “You texted me around when your family usually has breakfast.”

Monty would have been impressed at Percy knowing that, but his mother runs an utterly neurotic eating schedule, which the cooks maintain to the minute.

“No.”

“Hm,” Percy rolls Monty’s curls between his fingers. “Stand up.”

Monty’s legs feel rubbery and weak, but he pushes himself to his feet with an effort. Percy stands as well, and he’s still so close that Monty has to tilt his head to look at him.

Percy leans forward like he wants a kiss, and Monty is breathless in anticipation. Then Percy is moving past him, into the small kitchen area.

“I, ah,” Percy ruffles a hand through his hair. “I planned for this. A bit.”

Monty drags his dazed eyes away from the movement of Percy’s hands to the table. It’s laid out with a variety of fruits in bowls, with two glasses of water. The second chair is missing. There is, Monty has to swallow, there is a pillow on the floor next to the remaining chair.

When he drags his eyes back to Percy’s, Percy looks almost nervous. He ducks his head. “Would you like it if I feed you?”

Monty’s mouth drops open. “God, yes,” he says, and then immediately feels his face flush with embarrassment. But Percy is already nodding.

“Good,” and it goes through Monty like a shot. “Kneel down.”

Monty goes to his knees so fast that it’s only the pillow that prevents any sort of damage. He sneaks a glance at Percy, hoping that Percy won’t laugh, but Percy is looking down at him with an utterly indecipherable look.

“God, Monty, you’re so,” he trails off.

Monty feels suddenly cold. So what. Desperate? Needy? Broken?

But Percy doesn’t finish the thought, just takes a seat at the table. “You’ve been getting skinny. Well. Skinnier then normal.” He flashes Monty a grin. “However will you maintain your figure?”

Monty ducks his head, feeling ashamed.

Percy tilts Monty’s chin up with a finger. “No, that’s not. I shouldn’t joke.” He laughs weakly. “I’m so worried I’m going to fuck this up horribly.”

Monty opens his mouth to reassure him, hoping that he can push words out past the distant place his head is at because he hates to see Percy doubt himself. “You’re perfect,” is what pops out of his stupid, treacherous mouth, and the shock of it almost jolts him entirely out of the calm he’s fallen into.

For a moment, he and Percy just stare at one another, the words hanging heavy between them. Then Percy, God, Percy laughs.

The sound of it hits Monty like a lash and he tries not to flinch.

“That’s very kind of you, Monty, thank you,” Percy says.

It’s not kind, Monty wants to scream. It’s the truth. The only thing I know, carved into my bones and my soul and my heart. He closes his mouth and his eyes and waits until Percy’s chuckles die out. Each one is like a shove off a precipice, leaving him reeling and aching with freefall. He wants Percy to touch him again.

“Well, then,” Percy says. “Let us continue.”

Please, Monty does not say.

“Put your fists on your knees,” Percy commands. “That’s a standing rule, make sure I can always see your hands.” Monty can feel the key pressed into his palm, hopes that he will have it’s imprint carved into him. And just like that, Monty is back in. “Look at me.”

Monty drags his eyes up to Percy’s.

“Good. I don’t want you to look away. I want to see you.”

Monty has a hold back a keen, and he can feel it building behind his teeth. He bites at his lip to keep it in. Percy’s hand goes to his mouth, tugging Monty’s lip from between his teeth. His smooths the bite with his thumb. When he pulls back, Monty sways forward, trying to follow him.

“You need to eat.” Percy reaches for a bowl of strawberries- Monty’s favorite. Monty holds out his left hand, the one not holding the key, waiting for Percy to give him the berry. “I said hands on your knees,” Percy says calmly.

Monty drops his hand back down his leg quickly, feeling himself flush and prickle all over. He feels confused, off-balance. He doesn’t know what Percy wants. Percy picks up a strawberry and places it against Monty’s lips.

Monty opens his mouth, hardly daring to believe that this is real, and lets Percy feed him the strawberry, feeling it burst on his tongue, fresh and ripe and sweet. Percy, ever thinking ahead, had cut the stem off already.

“Good,” Percy whispers. He feeds Monty another, then another. Each one is sweet and perfect, and Monty holds Percy’s eyes as he takes them with his mouth, feeling utterly consumed. “You’re so good.”

Monty closes his eyes in bliss, and Percy strokes his cheek gently. In a reminder, Monty things, and drag his eyes open again. Percy reaches for another bowl on the table, blueberries this time. He picks up a single berry and holds it out.

This time, with the smaller fruit, Monty’s mouth brushes Percy’s fingers, but when he looks up, Percy looks composed and serene and perfect.

The next blueberry, Monty dares to let his lips caress Percy’s fingers as he takes it. He wants to draw them into his mouth, wants to suck the sweet juice off of them with Percy’s eyes hot on his face, but he doesn’t dare.

Percy gives him another strawberry, then a piece of cantaloupe. Then, with an almost imperceptible pause, another blueberry. As last time, Monty lets his mouth linger. He feels distant and floaty, every bit of him narrowed to the awareness of his own mouth, of Percy’s eyes, of the sweet tang of fruit.

Several more pieces of cantaloupe follow, and Monty is startlingly aware off all the space that exists in his mouth, all the space the could, should be filled. It’s harder and harder to remember why that is a bad idea. When Percy offers him another blueberry, Monty lets his tongue flick out, licking the stickiness from Percy’s hand.

This time, the indrawn breath is unmistakable. “Monty,” Percy breathes. “Do you want to,” his fingers twitch against Monty’s lips.

Monty lets his mouth fall open in answer, leans forward so that Percy’s fingers slip over his lips. And he waits. Without Percy’s approval, he can’t. He needs.

He waits.

Percy’s eyes are so hot on his face, and Monty feels utterly set ablaze. He is suddenly, achingly aware of his own arousal. Then Percy pushes his fingers in, and Monty actual moans with the feel of it.

He closes his mouth around Percy’s fingers, caressing them with his tongue. Percy has calluses on his fingers from the violin, Monty traces them gently. A moan climbs up his throat, dislodged by the shocked pleasure of Percy allowing this.

He is, in that moment, a being of pure pleasure. The feeling of Percy’s fingers in his mouth, the taste of him on his tongue. Then Percy pulls his fingers away and Monty makes a desperate, wanting noise. He follows Percy’s hand with his mouth, his entire body swaying forward.

Someone moans, and it is only by the look on Percy’s face, split open with arousal, his mouth fallen open, that Monty knows that it it was him. The sound rolls through him and he whimpers around Percy’s fingers. The knowledge that Percy is turned on, that he may be the one responsible for it, is like fire in his veins.

He sucks harder on Percy’s fingers, greedily, taking them in as far as he can, pressing them against the roof of his mouth his with tongue. He imagines he can feel every whirl of Percy’s fingerprints, every mark ever made on Percy’s skin. Every line, every small texture utterly unique, defining Percy, Percy, Percy. Monty bobs his head so that Percy’s fingers slip in and out of his mouth, letting he sweet slide of the calluses on his tongue, his lips, drive him to distraction, to ecstasy.

“Monty, God.” Percy says, and his voice cracks. Monty shudders all over with the sound of it. The Percy has pulled away, and Monty feels bereft, empty, lost, before Percy’s fingers are in his hair, tugging him up.

“You’re perfect,” Percy says, and Monty actually keens. “God, Monty, look at you.” He pulls Monty into his lap. It’s a disconcerting feeling, and wonderful. Monty is short enough that raised up and spread over Percy like this, his feet don’t touch the ground. His hands are still clutched onto his knees, and so it is only Percy’s hands on him that keep him steady.

He tries to brace himself for a moment, then lets go. He trusts Percy.

Percy runs one hand over Monty’s right hand, feeling the ridges of his knuckles in their tight fist, then moves to wrap around Monty’s waist, keeping him still.

Monty moves forward, eager for a kiss, but Percy holds him in place with the hand in his hair. ‘

“Just let me look at you,” Percy says.

Monty tries to turn his face away, but Percy’s grip is unyielding. For a moment, Monty still pulls, just to feel the tension, the utter control that Percy has on him, before he relaxes.

Percy lets go of his hair and catches his jaw, running a thumb over Monty’s lips. “You’re so lovely, Monty. I never get to just look at you. You’re always doing something, always in motion.”

Monty sucks the tip of Percy’s thumb into his mouth. Percy gasps, and the hand around Monty’s waist tightens. It brings their groins into sharp contact, both of them hard.

He sways forward, yearning, almost bringing their lips to touch. For one moment, he feels Percy’s breath on his lips, feels the scalding heat of him. Then Percy’s hand tightens in his hair and he pulls Monty back.

“Tell me you want this, Monty.” Percy’s voice is ragged, desperate.

“I do,” Monty gasps. “Please, Percy, I want this. I need this, please.”

“What do you want?” Percy asks again, and the answer crystallizes in a moment.

Still, Monty flounders. Confessing to the terrible, aching, yearning desire for a kiss feels too revealing. Too much of him laid bare for Percy’s inspection, for Percy’s rejection. He hasn’t missed that Percy has intercepted his kisses multiple times now. He reaches inside himself for another truth.

“I want to suck you,” he gasps. “Please, Percy.”

“Jesus Christ,” Percy swears. “Yes. On your knees,”

He feels Percy’s fingers on his hand as he slips off of Percy’s lap and back onto the pillow, looking up at Percy from beneath his eyelashes. It’s a very fetching look, he’s perfected it.

“Good,” Percy says, and how is it that he already has Monty so throughly pinned? Percy tucks a stray curl behind Monty’s ear. “Don’t forget to keep your hands where I can see them.”

Monty swallows, and shifts his hands back to his knees. He can’t balance at all like this, can’t reach out and touch Percy, can’t grip at his hips or help him take off his jeans. All he can do is watch.

Percy swallows and fiddles with the hem of his trousers. Then, in one quick motion, he yanks both his jeans and his pants down to his ankles and kicks them aside. He’s already hard, all smooth skin and dark hair and Monty sways forward, mouth already watering.

“You can, uhm,” Percy swallows again. “Do what you said.”

Someday, Monty wants to hear him say the words. If this isn’t a fever dream, or some pity favor of Percy’s, if this is ever something that will happen again, Monty wants Percy to look down at him with those dark eyes and that carefully controlled expression and that velvet voice of command and order for Monty to suck him off.

Monty takes Percy into his mouth in one long, smooth motion, letting Percy’s cock slide over his lips, deep into his mouth. Percy swears again, reaching and putting a steadying hand in Monty’s hair.

Everything is slipping away from him, the outside world faint and distant. There is just the feel of Percy in his mouth, the taste of him, the sound of his voice. Monty can’t get a good angle with his hands at his knees, can only lean forward and back.

Percy shudders, gasping and moaning as he bucks forward and tries to stop himself from bucking forward. Monty wants to tell him that it’s okay, that he can fuck his mouth if he wants, to please fuck his mouth, but he can’t form words, can’t be anything other then need.

“So good,” Percy is saying. “I should have known you’d be good at this, Monty, your mouth,” and each word is like fire down his spine, in his blood. Monty think he could come from this, from the smell and taste and sound and feel of Percy, nothing but Percy.

He can feel Percy shaking, every aborted thrust of his hip getting weaker. He wants to pull Percy close, to steady him with hands on his hips or around his thighs, but he couldn’t take his hands from his knees if his life depended on it.  
  
“Oh, fuck, I have to,” Percy’s knees buckle in one delicious motion and he staggers back. Monty follows him on his knees, until Percy collapses back into his chair. Something about that, about the filthy knowledge that this is happening at Percy’s kitchen table, almost pushes Monty over the edge. His own hips jerk up, but he can’t do anything about it, his hands are on his knees, on his knees, fuck. He moans, the sound rumbling up from his chest and getting caught in his mouth, muffled by Percy.

“God, you’re enjoying this,” Percy gasps, and Monty wants to cry, yes, God, yes. Then, like a flipped switch, Percy grabs at his hair again and hold Monty in place, and fucks into his mouth in three quick thrusts. “So good,” he says, “you’re perfect, Monty, God.”

The feeling of his come filling Monty’s mouth, of Percy’s hands in his hair, of Percy taking, like Monty’s is his (and oh, oh, he is), is all too much, and Monty feels himself coming in his trousers, without a hand on him.

Everything after that is a bit of a blur, with Monty feeling in even more a daze then he usually got when someone gives him orders, and Percy telling him how good he was, how lovely, tracing his mouth with gentle fingers. Percy trying to take the key from him, Monty refusing to let him, until Percy lets him be.

 

* * *

 

When Monty comes to, he and Percy are stretched out on the couch together. Percy is reading some dusty law journal from the 1800s or some other dreadful year, gently running his fingers through Monty’s hair, and Monty is ontop of him, their legs intertwined.

“Hey,” Percy says.

“Hey.” His voice sounds hoarse. He watches in fascination as color climbs up Percy’s cheeks, and even though Monty is full aware that he should be embarrassed himself, he only feels light and gently pleased.

Percy drops his book to the table and clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry that I that I made you—”

Monty stretches ludicrously, an unusually delightful experience given his current placement. “Made me? I seem to recall—” he stops abruptly, struck with what he does recall. His own voice, begging to suck Percy off. He can’t bear to say it allowed. Instead, he reaches out and takes Percy’s hand in his right one. The key in his hand is pressed between their palms. “You made me do nothing,” he says.

Percy’s fingers tighten on him. “And that, that helped?”

“Hm?” Monty is only half listening, enjoying the feeling of Percy beneath him, of Percy’s hand settling on the small of his back.

“Only, I know that something has been wrong since the Tape. And after you spaced out the other day, I thought, maybe. And that really seemed to help, you seemed so much more settled after that.” He laughs, and Monty is suddenly aware that Percy has gone tense under him, his hand fisted in Monty’s shirt. He’s nervous. “I didn’t even mean for it to get sexual,” Percy says, and he says it like a joke, like the it’s not the worst thing Monty has ever heard.

It hits Monty like a bucket of ice water. Helped, Percy had said. Yes. It helped. Monty feels better then he’s felt since the Tape came out. He possible feels better then he has in his entire life. At least, before this terrible realization washed over him.

Jesus Christ, Percy is still talking. “I thought it would be like in the drawing room. But you were so…” Percy trails off, and Monty can hear the end of that sentence. He had heard it at the time, and pushed it aside for what he wanted. So desperate, needy, broken.

Percy had done it out of some twisted sense of obligation. Monty has been utterly failing at holding himself together, he knows that. And Percy had some how sussed out that one of the missing elements was a certain amount of kinky sex.

And Percy, bless his kind, noble, self-sacrificing heart, must have figured out somehow that Monty had been unable to trust anyone since the Tape, and had offered himself up like a lamb to the slaughter. And not even for sex. For, what, for platonically ordering Monty around and feeding him fruit, until Monty had sucked Percy’s fingers into his mouth and made it sexual.

He had been thinking it was something real, something he could have, and Percy had been humoring him.

Oh, Monty isn’t so deluded to think that Percy gets nothing out of it. Monty is fully aware of what he looks like, of where his talents lie. He’s good at sex. Percy had said it himself. He’s gorgeous. He’s good with his mouth.

But it hadn’t been born out of an irresistible pining for him. Percy can hardly want a relationship with him. Not with damaged, needy, broken Henry Montague IV.

He makes himself smile. “It helped enormously.” He answers Percy’s first question, because addressing the rest of what Percy had said might break him. And, God help him, it’s even true. Even with his crushing realization, he feels more clear-headed, more stable. The world feels real around him, entirely within his grasp.

Well, most of it.

“And it was…” Percy hesitates. “Good?”

“Absolutely smashing, darling,” Monty says. He leans in to press a quick kiss to Percy’s mouth. Percy turns his head away, the kiss landing on his cheek, Monty feels the smooth skin under his lips. Then he slips away, leaving the key in Percy’s hand.

He stands up and stretches, the entire front of him feeling cold. He makes a show of glancing at his phone as he settles. “Good lord, is that the time?” It’s only half four, he could easily stay the rest of the day here. Stay the night here. (Stay forever here.) “I have to dash, Mother will be frantic.” She absolutely won’t be, but Monty is worried that if he spends one more second here, if he has to hear Percy tell him that this was all out of pity, then he might break apart.

“Monty?” Percy asks, and his voice shakes ever so slightly.

Monty gathers all his courage about him. Even though the thought may break him apart, Percy doing this for him was, god, it was everything. Percy had hit almost every button he had, done everything that ended in Monty feel more settled in his own skin, more ready to face the world, and Monty couldn’t ignore that.

He turns back to Percy. “Thank you, Percy. I truly, truly mean it. You can’t imagine how much—” how much I’ve been falling apart. How much I needed that. How much I love you. How much I wish it had been real. “—that helped.”

Percy swallows. “Happy to be of service.”

Monty is 90% sure that his smile looks sincere. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” God, he hopes that he hasn’t ruined their friendship, that he hasn’t ruined the best thing in his life.

Percy smiles back at him, and Monty would do anything for that smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Monty takes one last, fleeting glimpse at Percy’s hands, but the key is already hidden from view by Percy’s long, elegant hands. He flees.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Felicity, I may have fucked up.”

“What else is new?” Felicity asks dryly.

“No, like, more than usual.”

“More than having The Sun get ahold of one of your sex tapes and putting it on the internet?”

Monty draws himself up, genuinely offended. “Excuse you. It was not one of _my_ sex tapes. It was a sex tape made without my consent or knowledge, and sold to the papers without my permission.”

“Oh.” Felicity is quiet for a long moment. “That’s really shitty, Monty. I’m sorry I laughed about it.”

Monty blows his breath out through his nose. “No, it’s alright. I know why you did.” He pauses. “If it had been my sex tape, the lighting would have been better.”

Felicity laughs. “Ew, I don’t want to know that!”

“You asked!”

“I really, really didn’t.”

It’s really amazing, how much Monty misses her now that she no longer lives at the manor. He’d spent so long thinking of her as this annoying, prudish oddball that he hadn’t realized how much of an ally she had been. He doubts he had been as much of an ally to her.

“I miss you,” he blurts out. “I know we weren’t that friendly, but I do.”

Felicity stops laughing. “God, Monty, how bad has it gotten there?”

Felicity had never known how bad it was for Monty, and he very much intends to keep it that way. “Oh, you know, the usual. Turns out the parentals disapprove of sex tapes of their eldest running around on the internet.”

“Shocking.”

Monty slumps back into his pillows. “I know, right?”

“I miss you too,” Felicity says after a moment. Monty feels surprised. He’s never been a good brother to her, he can’t imagine what there is about him for her to miss. “Everyone here is so serious.”

Monty snorts. “At an Oxford pre-med summer camp? I’m shocked.”

“It’s not a summer camp!”

Monty rolls his eyes. “It’s a place where you go over the summer, and spend the night, and learn about science shit, right?”

“It’s an accelerated program!”

“Over the summer.”

Felicity makes an exasperated noise. “I changed my mind. I retract my sentiment, I don’t miss you in the slightest.”

“Too late!” Monty crows gleefully. “You already admitted it! You miss me terribly. You can hardly stand to be without your big brother at your side.”

“My big bother, you mean.”

“Ouch.”

“So, what did you do?” Felicity asks. “That’s worse than the sex tape?”

“I slept with Percy,” Monty says it all in a rush, and even in his desperation, the words sound fake aloud. They sound wonderful aloud. And it’s not even strictly true, but he’d hardly going to tell his prudish little sister that Percy had bossed him around a lot and Monty had sucked him off.

He waits for Felicity to groan, to berate him, tell him how foolish he is.

“…and?” Felicity asks.

“And… that’s bad?” Monty says. “I mean, it was obviously a pity-fuck, and I’m not sure—”

“Wait, stop, stop,” Felicity cuts him off. “How did you pity-fuck your own boyfriend?”

“What?” Monty squaks. “What, no! He pity-fucked me!” He would really like to stop saying the words pity-fuck now.

“Well, that makes slightly more sense—”

“Hey!”

“But I’m still confused. Aren’t you kind of dating? I mean, I tend to assume that anyone having sex with you is at least at some level a pity-fuck—”

“Hey!”

“—but I rather thought that Percy—”

“We’re not dating!” Monty shouts, before Felicity can lay out all the things that she thinks Percy is.

Felicity grinds to a halt. “What?”

Monty swallows. “Percy and I. We’re not dating. This was the first—the first,” he chokes on the words. “We’re not dating.”

“I’m confused.”

Despair and anger wells up inside of him. “We’re not dating! We’ve never dated! We never will. Percy and I will never be an item. Not ever!”

“But,” Felicity sounds desperately confused. “But you’re in love with him.”

Monty laughs, a torn, broken sound. He should have known that Felicity knew that. “Yeah. I am.”

“And now you’ve slept together?”

“After a fashion.”

“How—nevermind, I don’t want to know. Why do you think it was out of pity?”

Monty is not going to explain that. No way. “I just know.”

“But, Monty. Percy loves you.”

“Yeah, sure. As a friend. But he’s not in love with me.”

“Um. If you say so.”

Monty sighs, and for once it’s not playacting. He just feels tired, worn thin. “I know so, Felicity.”

“So what’s the problem then? Don’t you want to sleep with Percy?”

Who wouldn’t? Monty does not say. “I don’t know. Yes. Not like this.”

“Are you going to do it again?”

Monty has never been known for his restraint. “Probably.” If Percy approaches him again, Monty can’t imagine a world in which he says no.

“I still don’t get what the problem is?”

The worst part is, Monty is pretty sure that she isn’t being cruel, she genuinely doesn’t understand. “What if everything is ruined? What if I destroyed our friendship and Percy never speaks to me again.”

“I don’t think that your penis has that kind of power.”

Monty is uncomfortable with the turn that this conversation has taken. He feels a reflexive need to defend his penis, but it’s torn with an equally reflexive urge to not speak of his penis with his sister.

“Look, Monty, you said it yourself. Percy loves you. Even if it’s not like how you love him, which seems unlikely,” she adds under her breath, “he’s not going to end fifteen years of friendship over it.”

“He might!” Monty cries.

Felicity sighs. “I really think that you should be talking about this with him.”

Fat chance. “Pass.”

Felicity makes a noise that rather suggests she’s throwing her hands up in the air. “Well, that’s what I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

“Uggghhhhh,” Monty says with feeling. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“You called me!”

“Tell me about your summer camp,” Monty says, and ignores her protests that it’s not a summer camp. But then she starts telling him about her classes, and her dorms, and how perfectly lovely Oxford is, and Monty lets the sound of being truly, honestly happy wash over him.

 

* * *

 

Despite Felicity’s repeated assurances that it won’t be awkward it is, in fact, awkward.

“Hey.” Monty has to stop himself from scuffing his toes on the ground like a child.

“Hey,” Percy replies. “Uh, come in.”

Right. Into Percy’s apartment. Where Percy told him to get on his knees, and fed him, and let Monty suck him off. Monty takes a deep breath and steps into the apartment.

To his surprise, some of the awkwardness dissipates, rather than building. He can never feel truly ill-at-ease in Percy’s apartment. Malory is stretched out on the couch, and her service vest is off. She’s always technically working, but the rules are more relaxed in the apartment. Monty crosses to the couch and gives her ears a quick scratch. She turns her head to lick his palm and he smiles.

“I was just making lunch,” Percy says. “You want some?”

“Yes, please,” Monty says, and tries not to flush at the memory of Percy feeding him in this very apartment. Percy doesn’t even seem to register, just spoons pasta onto two plates.

“I always make too much,” he laughs. “It’s impossible to know what the right amount is for one person until I’ve already made enough for an army.”

“A small army,” Monty says, and pulls up the other chair. Percy pours sauce over both plates. “It smells wonderful.”

Percy ducks his head. “It’s just from a jar.”

Monty has never cooked anything in his life. He’s never even made tea. “Still.”

It’s an effort to keep his eyes from dropping to the floor by Percy’s chair. It would be very, very difficult for Percy to feed him pasta anyways. And also a bad idea, he reminds himself. He shoves a bite of pasta into his mouth to shut his brain up. It’s hotter than he expected, but also delicious.

“This is really good!” he says, once he’s chewed and swallowed.

“No need to sound so surprised,” Percy grins at him.

“You did say it was out of a jar! I didn’t know jars were such excellent cooks.”

“I may have added a few spices.” Percy holds up his thumb and forefinger a little bit apart, to show just how few spices he added.

“Well done, you.” Monty says, spooning an indecently large bite into his mouth. Whatever, there are no parents here to judge him.

Percy watches him for a moment, and Monty cocks an eyebrow at him. Percy quickly returns his gaze to his plate and takes a bite of his own pasta.

“Oh. It is good.”

“Told you,” Monty says with his mouth full.

Percy makes a face. “Close your mouth when you chew, you’re supposed to be a gentleman.”

Monty opens his mouth defiantly, showing Percy his mouthful of half-chewed pasta.

“Eugh,” Percy says, but he’s laughing. “What are you, five?”

Monty winks at him, which has the gratifying effect of making Percy laugh again.

“Speaking of being five,” Monty begins.

“Always a good start to a sentence,” Percy says.

“Did you hear that Caroline Darby is having her coming out event this month?”

Percy affects a shocked expression. “I didn’t know Caroline Darby liked girls!”

Monty collapses into giggles. “That’s what I said!”

“But seriously, isn’t she, like, fifteen?”

“Felicity came out at thirteen, for all the good it did her.”

“God, they really have to start calling it something else.”

Monty gives him a sardonic look. “The peerage, change their ways? Percy, don’t be absurd.”

“You’re right,” Percy says. “I’m being ridiculous. Far better that it sound like every young lady is a lesbian once she hits her teen years.”

“Ah, if wishing made it so,” Monty says, mock-wistful.

Percy makes a face. “Don’t be gross, Monty. Besides, if every girl were gay, however would you entertain yourself?”

“They could be bi, Percy. Don’t apply such restrictive labels to our fictional peers.”

Percy snorts.

“Besides, there’s always the lads,” Monty says.

“Hm,” Percy says noncommittally.

Monty doesn’t say, I wouldn’t care about any of it, I wouldn’t sleep with another one of them if you would give me just a hint, just a glance.

“You should come!”

“To?

“To Caroline Darby’s coming out party.”

“I really, really shouldn’t,” Percy protests. “I wasn’t even invited.”

“Only because your aunt and uncle are on sabbatical. You’re usually invited to all the society events.”

“No, you usually drag me to all the society events,” Percy corrects.

“Then let me drag you to this one. Come on, Percy, please don’t leave me surrounded by all those children.”

“They’ll all be teenagers, at least.”

“Children,” Monty stresses. “I’ll talk to Mother. You know she adores you.”

“Does she?”

Well, she adores Percy more than she likes Monty, but who wouldn’t. If Percy weren’t so visibly different from the rest of the Montague family, Monty suspects she would have tried to arrange a trade with the Newtons years ago.

“At least let me ask, Percy, please.”

Percy sighs the familiar sigh of defeat. “Yes, alright. But only if the Darbys invite me! Do not gatecrash me into this party.”

“You have my word,” Monty says, making an X over his heart. Percy follows the motion with his eyes, then drags his gaze up to Monty’s face.

“I’m thinking of going out tonight,” Monty says, unnerved by the intensity in Percy’s look. “Would you like to come?”

The laughter fades from Percy’s face, and Monty wants to reach out and snatch his words from the air. “Oh. I thought—” Percy doesn’t say what he thought, but his knife scrapes across his plate. “No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” Monty says, as though he doesn’t care. He cares a lot.

“Are you,” Percy trails off. “Try not to get photographed, alright?”

Monty thinks of his father’s reaction if his face ends up in the papers one more time. “I’m doing my best. But honestly, he can’t expect me to stop living my life.”

Percy blinks at him. He has a smear of tomato sauce under his lip, and Monty longs to lick it away. “He?”

“My father,” Monty clarifies, confused. “Isn’t that what you meant?”

“Oh.” Percy wipes at his mouth with his napkin, getting the sauce off completely. “Yes, of course.”

Monty reaches out and catches Percy’s hand. “I’ll be careful. You’ve no need to worry.”

Percy gently tugs his hand free, and Monty feels it in his whole body. “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Miracle of miracles, Monty manages to get to the club, have a splendid encounter with a girl in a too-short dress, and back without getting spied by a single camera.

He still returns to the manor feeling empty and unsatisfied.

It had been fine, though all a bit tame, mutual hand stuff in the back of the club, hidden by the dark and the crush of bodies, but all Monty had been able to think about was the feeling of Percy’s fingers in his mouth, the look in his eyes as he came. In the end, Monty had even tugged the girl’s slender fingers into his mouth and closed his eyes while she jacked him off, but it had barely helped.

Percy had utterly ruined him for anyone else. He had done it years ago, if Monty was being honest with himself, but now that he knows the taste of Percy, the feel of him, the way that they fit together just as well as Monty expected, everyone else feels like a pale imitation.

Monty set his alarm for early, knowing that the best time to catch his mother is at breakfast. His mother is a morning person, always in her best mood before noon. Before Monty can do something to disappoint her. If he wants to secure an invitation for Percy to Caroline Darby’s coming out party, he has to act strategically.

His mother is already seated at the table when Monty comes in, and he takes a seat closer to her then he normally would.

“Good morning, Mother.”

“Good morning, Monty.” It’s always a good sign when she calls him Monty. He beams at her.

“I’ve been thinking about the Darbys’ party,” he says.

His mother delicately breaks the egg open in her little egg cup. “Oh?”

“I’m looking forward to it.” He is not. “But apparently, with the Newtons out on their sabbatical, Percy didn’t get his invitation.”

His mother frowns. She hates when the proper social niceties aren’t followed. The Newtons may be on the poorer side of their social circle, but they are still members. To not invite a boy of an eligible, marrying age (a thought which rather makes Monty want to strangle himself with his napkin) is terribly rude.

“I’ll speak to Lady Darby about it,” his mother says. “I suppose with Percy there, you won’t make as much of a spectacle of yourself?”

Monty’s smile freezes on his face. “I will be on my best behavior,” he promises. “It’s easy to stay civil around Percy,” he adds, viciously.

He excuses himself sometime after that. He wanders around the empty rooms for a time, feeling rather useless. The servants, having taking his father’s edict of ‘servants should be neither seen nor heard,’ to heart, stay out of his way.

Monty is abruptly cognizant of how few friends he has. He has Percy. And that’s about it. No one else he can talk with, no one he can call when he’s bored. Oh, Felicity might take his call, but he’s already bared his soul to her once this week, that’s plenty. She has better things to do than talk to him.

Is it strange that Monty and Percy spend almost every day together? He doesn’t even know what normal is. In all things, probably, but especially in this.

Sighing, he texts Percy. ‘You should come over.’

Percy sends him back an emoji of someone rolling their eyes, but agrees quickly anyway.

They spend the rest of the day on Monty’s bed, both of them on their respective computers in companionable silence. It’s nice, calm, lovely. And if Percy goes out of his way not to touch him, well. Monty pretends not to notice.

If Percy sees the new bites on Monty’s neck and just above the low collar of his shirt, he pretends not to notice as well.

 

* * *

 

Percy and Monty have not talked once about the slightly kinky sex that they had, and it’s started to wear on Monty. He doesn’t know how to mention it, and he doesn’t want Percy to tell him that it was a mistake, that he regrets it. But Monty also wants desperately for it to happen again.

He’s getting reckless again, and he knows it. He’s not usually so self-aware, but he can tell when he gets home and sees his torso and arms littered with small bruises. He’s being discreet, but it’s only pure luck that the paparazzi hasn’t caught him at it again.

He still isn’t able to get the kind of sex that he craves either. He thought, that the time with Percy might have shaken something loose in him, proven that he can have that again, can still make it work. But it’s only made it worse. He still has that horrid, shaking feeling that any time he puts that level of trust in another person, it will end with a knife in his back. Or his face on the internet again. One of the two.

But now he also has to deal with the knowledge that this person is Not Percy. The knowledge that Percy is an option, if Monty were different. If Percy had wanted more than a pity-fuck to shake Monty out of depression.

He texts Percy every time he goes out, and he doesn’t have an explanation for it. He’s not sure what he hopes to get out of it, whether he wants Percy to stop him or come with him or for God’s sake, just show any kind of reaction. Any sort of anything to the fact that Monty intends to go out and have meaningless and potentially dangerous sex with strangers.

He can still feel Percy’s hand pressed over the mark on his hip, and he knows that Percy sees the recent marks, but Percy still says nothing. Monty doesn’t know what he expects, but it still bothers him. He feels like a fool.

So on Thursday, three weeks after the tape, a week and a half after he and Percy— after he and Percy. A week and a half after that, Monty texts that he’s going out, and he almost drops his phone when Percy says ‘come get me.’

It’s a treacherous trip. It’s even harder to get out and make another stop before the club, but Monty manages it by sneaking out off the second floor balcony and having a car meet him by the small road behind the gardens.

“Well, don’t you look dashing,” Monty says as Percy climbs into the back of the cab with him. Dashing is an understatement. Percy looks stunning, radiant. Delicious. Monty didn’t even know that he owned a leather jacket. “How did you get your hair to do that?” He reaches out and touches the gently tousled spikes. They’re stiff with gel.

Percy bats his hands away. “It’s called hair gel, Monty. I know for a fact that you’ve heard of it.” He eyes Monty’s own perfectly done hair pointedly.

“As if I need it,” Monty lies. He gives the cabby the name of the club and leans back. He can’t stop himself from shooting glances at Percy. If he spreads his legs wide enough, his knee jostles against Percy’s every time the cab turns, and Monty is absurdly pleased by that.

“Here we go,” he says when they pull up. He ushers Percy out of the first and slips the driver a fifty, keep the change, for following his pick-up instructions so exactly.

“Gosh,” Percy says, starting up at the club with wide eyes. “It’s so loud.”

“Shut up,” Monty laughs, jostling him. “I know you’ve been to a club before.”

Percy holds the wide-eyed, babe-in-the-woods look for a second longer before he cracks. “Caught out!”

“It was a good try,” Monty assures him. “I think you oversold it with the ‘gosh’ though.”

“Did I?” Percy says, and he can’t even hold a straight face. Monty feels giddy and breathless and so goddamn in love with him it’s painful.

“Just a bit,” he says. “Come on, let’s jump the line.”

It’s another fifty to the bouncer, but it’s not like Monty has money problems. Plenty of other problems, sure, but not money problems.

Reflexively, Monty grabs for Percy’s hand as soon as the wall of light and sound hits them. He almost drops it against when he’s hit by the sudden memory that this hand has been in his mouth, but he doesn’t. He lets the knowledge fuel him, light him up like a fire kindling in his stomach and spreading through his veins.

Out here, on the dance floor, with the music too loud to think and the light too dark to see, he feels desirable, powerful. It’s one of the few clubs in the area that doesn’t rely on flashing lights to create atmosphere, so instead it’s just dim and a bit smoky.  

He loses Percy somewhere in the press of bodies, and he’s not sure if it was him or Percy who let go first.

It doesn’t matter. He pushes his way through the crowd to the bar and gets two shots. He hates shots. He does them both at once, and feels the pleasant burn of it buzz through him. It feels like the sweet kindling of Percy’s touch, and he wishes he had another. He looks back, longingly, at the bar, but the crowd is already pushing him away from it.

It doesn’t matter. He throws himself into the people instead. People who want him. People who don’t know him.

He can feel someone hard against his hip, and see two people making out just in front of him. Someone behind him places a sloppy kiss on his neck and he tilts his head to give them better access.

It’s as intoxicating as any alcohol, and he turns into the girl at his side. She’s the same height as him in her heels, and when she leans in for a kiss, Monty meets her eagerly. Her dress is too short, and she is the one who guides him, hand to her thigh, and up, and Monty feels the soft skin of her leg under his fingers and—

He meets Percy’s eyes in the crowd almost by accident, and he has no words for the look in his eyes. Then someone next to Percy is tugging Percy down to say something in his ear and Percy is going flushed and he already looks rumpled and Monty can’t stand it.

Monty tugs away from the girl, throws himself deeper into the crowd, away from the sight of someone else’s hands on Percy. He has no trouble finding someone else, and in the chaos and noise and the dance floor, it’s easy to find a boy, any boy, and throw his arms around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. To feel consumed and wanted and worthy—

He feels a harsh tug on his arm, and pulls out of the kiss. Percy is glaring down at him. He can see Percy’s mouth moving, but Monty can’t hear a word. He shakes his head and pulls out of Percy’s hold, turns back to the boy who actually wants him.

Percy tugs again, and this time his mouth is right up against Monty’s skin and Monty goes to jelly at the feel of Percy’s lips against the shell of his ear. “Let’s go.”

Monty tugs his arm free, and is about to resume kissing the boy in front of him when Percy grabs Monty’s jaw with a firm hand and pulls him into a kiss.

It’s nothing like kissing the other boy. It’s fire and flame and being utterly consumed. Percy’s hands are hot on his hips, and then Monty is pressed against him, straining on his toes to meet Percy’s mouth, and Percy is holding him in place and kissing him and kissing him.

“We’re going home,” Percy says into Monty’s ear and Monty can only nod because the alternative is God, yes.

There is a line of cabs waiting outside, and Percy all but pushes Monty into the first one and gives the cabby his own address, oh God, he’s taking Monty home with him.

Monty leans in for another kiss but Percy puts a hand on his shoulder and holds him back. Monty has only a second to feel bothered by this before Percy shoots a telling look at the cabby and then moves his gaze stoically forward. Monty emulates him, fixing his eyes forward so that he won’t climb into Percy’s lap and beg.

He jumps when he feels Percy’s hand on his leg, and he eyes focus on it with almost preternatural clarity. Percy is staring out the car window but his hand is climbing up Monty’s leg, his palm hot through the fabric of Monty’s trousers.

Slowly, achingly, Percy’s thumb sweeps back and forth on Monty’s inseam until Monty is tilting his head back, struggling to breathe under the wave of want, want, _want._

The arrival of cab at Percy’s place is a surprise, and it takes two nudges before Monty can put himself together enough to climb out of the cab.

He waits, something close to patience in his veins, as the cab drives away. Then he pins Percy to the wall outside his apartment door, leaning up and into Percy’s mouth.

“No,” Percy growls, and flips them. Monty doesn’t even have time to worry about the before Percy is slotting a leg between his and grinding against him in one desperate arch. “You didn’t listen to me,” Percy growls, and his hand finds Monty’s hair and pulls his head back, biting at his throat with sharp teeth and hot lips.

“I’m sorry,” Monty gasps, his hands scrambling at the wall, desperate and overcome. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

Percy wrenches himself away and fumbles in his pocket for his keys. Monty can only sag against the wall and gasp for air, feeling the world spin away from him. He’s not sure if that’s the shots or Percy’s touch, or an intoxicating blend of the two.

“Come on,” Percy says, and tugs Monty up the stairs. Monty tries for another kiss in the hall, but Percy won’t let him. He almost kicks the door open and practically shoves Monty inside.

For a moment, they both stand in Percy’s living room and stare at one another, both of them gasping for air.

“Was that what you wanted?” Percy asks. “Strangers, in a club, who have no idea what you want?” He advances on Monty, and Monty has never thought of him as a predator before. “No idea what you need.”

Monty whimpers.

“Was it?” Percy leans in, his mouth directly next to Monty’s ear. “Tell me.”

Monty’s fingers fumble at Percy’s shoulder, just needing something to hold onto. “No,” he whispers, and it feels like confession.

Percy pulls back, and Monty almost falls.

“What do you want?”

Monty staggers under the weight of the question. He shakes his head, and keeps shaking it, because the only answer he can give is you, please, you.

“When you do this,” Percy gestures between them. “When you go out, what word do you use?” He purses his lips, and says the words carefully. “What’s your safeword?”

Monty can feel color blooming in his cheeks. “I use,” he hesitates, licks his lips. “I use colors. Green means good. Yellow is slow down, but don’t end the,” he swallows, “the scene. Red is stop.”

Percy nods, and Monty can see him fixing the word in his mind. “Like a traffic light?”

Monty’s mouth twitches up. “Exactly like that.”

“Good. Get on your knees.”

There is no moment between Monty hearing those words, and Monty obeying. It’s like Percy has found a direct link to him, and Monty’s body obeys without thought. Monty is left on his knees, gasping and aroused and looking up at Percy.

“What color is that?” Percy asks, and his wording is stilted but he himself is perfect.

“Green,” Monty gasps.

“Is this what you like?” Percy asks. When Monty flushes, and looks at the ground, Percy strides forward and grips Monty’s chin. “Is it?”

“Green,” Monty replies, because it’s less revealing than the other answers.

“Better than strangers in a club?” God, he won’t let go of Monty’s chin, won’t stop meeting his eyes, searching them for answers.

“Yes,” Monty replies.

“Good,” Percy hisses. He tugs at Monty’s chin. “Stand up.”

Monty stumbles to his feet, and Percy catches him effortlessly, lets Monty lean against him.

“Go lie down on my bed,” Percy says, and Monty feels drunk with the way that thought goes to his head. “Face down.” Oh, fuck. He tries not to look like the very thought is making him come undone as he staggers into Percy’s bedroom. He has to fumble for the lights, and he almost trips over Malory, but he makes to it the bed.

Monty strips his shirt off and hesitates over his trousers. But then he thinks of Percy’s hands, hot on his fly, of Percy’s voice, ordering him to undress, and he leaves them on.

He can hear Percy in the kitchen, hear the faucet running, and he wonders what Percy is up to. Then, almost effortlessly, he lets the thought go.

The pillow smells like Percy, and the blanket under him is just the right blend of soft and scratchy. He digs his fingers into it, feeling the fabric’s texture under his fingers.

When Percy finally enters the room, Monty is already drifting, lazily playing with the sheets.

“Did I tell you to undress?” Percy asks, and when Monty flinches, Percy lays a hand on his bare shoulder. “No, it’s alright. You did good, Monty.”

Monty settles back down with a pleased little whine.

“What color now?”

“Green,” Monty says, and it comes out as a pleased hum.

“I’m glad.” Percy sits down on the bed, Monty can feel his weight making the bed dip. He turns his head with some effort to look at him. Percy looks lovely, his face flushed, his hair relaxing from the way he had styled it for the club.

Monty smiles at him, feeling sleepy and affectionate. Percy smiles back.

“Can you drink this?” Percy asks, and he holds out a glass of water. It reminds Monty of… something, but as soon as he thinks it, the thought drifts away. He pushes himself up on one arm to take the glass, and swallows all of it obediently.

“Good, Monty,” Percy runs a hand through Monty’s hair. “I’m proud of you.”

Monty preens slightly, leaning into the caressing hand. Percy laughs softly, but there is no malice in it.

“Lie back down,” Percy says, so Monty does.

“Are you going to...” Monty trails off.

Percy pauses, Monty can see him stop moving out of his peripheral vision.

“Do you want me to?”

Even dazed, Monty knows that the full truth is dangerous.

“Green,” he says instead.

Percy laughs. “Are you always this cheeky?”

Monty shifts a bit on the bed, enjoying the feel of fabric under him. “Yes.”

“I’m glad,” Percy says again. This time, Monty feels Percy’s weight settle on the other wide. When he goes to lift his head, Percy puts a hand on the back of his skull and gently presses him back down. “Don’t move.”

Monty takes a breath, and lets it all out in one go. Every muscle seems to relax with it. Percy can do whatever he wants. Anything he wants.

“I just want to take care of you,” Percy says, and oh. Had Monty said that aloud?

“Don’t move,” Percy whispers, and Monty feels cool lips on his shoulder. He’s so relaxed, so calm, he doesn’t jump. He’s so good, he doesn’t move at all.

“You think that everyone needs sex just to be in your company,” Percy says, and places a kiss on another spot on Monty’s shoulder. Monty has a distant, vague memory of someone biting marks into him there, sometime this week. It’s so unimportant. “That’s not true,” Percy says.

“Green,” Monty says into the pillow, and he feels Percy’s lips curl into a smile.

“I don’t want you going out with strangers who don’t care,” Percy says, and his hands fit perfectly over Monty’s hips. Monty expects, any second, for Percy to slip off Monty’s trousers, to take. “Let me take care of you.”

Another kiss.

“Please,” Monty says, and he doesn't know what he’s asking for. His voice sounds hoarse, choked. “Please.”

“It’s okay, Monty,” Percy says. Kiss. “You’re doing so good.”

His fingers and lips are sweeping over Monty’s back, tracing old marks, gentling Monty through shudders he hardly knows he’s making.

Between one pass and the next, Monty falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

Monty wakes up and for the first time that he can remember, he is utterly comfortable. There is no headache lingering at the back of his skull, no gnawing sense of dread hinting at his consciousness. He turns his head into the pillow and breathes in. It doesn’t smell like his bed at home, but it’s familiar all the same. Safe, in a way that his own bed never is.

He tries to turn over, because comfortable or not there is a beam of sunlight shining directly onto his face, and finds his movement hampered by a band around his waist. He peeks an eye open, mindful of the sun. Not a band. An arm.

Monty remember the last night in a rush and all the dread that he hadn’t been feeling crashes over him in a dreadful wave. He stifles a moan of despair and turns his head into the pillow, swamped with humiliation.

Bad enough that Percy had figured him out, but at least Percy had gotten a blowjob out of the last time. What had he gotten this time? Just a glimpse into how broken and desperate Monty really was. And Monty had been there, ready for the taking, wanting, and Percy still had turned him down. Still hadn’t wanted to have sex with him.

He remembers the heated passion of the cab ride, the press of his back against the wall, the feel of Percy’s leg between his. He also remembers Percy laying his down on this bed and deliberately not touching him. He has a memory of words pressed between the two of them, but he can’t for the life of him remember what those words were. He’s pretty sure that Percy had kissed him, there in the club, but it’s probably a dream-memory.

The arm around his waist tightens, pulling him closer into Percy’s side. “Stop thinking so loud,” Percy grumbles.

Monty reaches deep, deep inside himself and pulls up a veneer of humor. “Something no one has ever accused me of before.”

He steels himself to roll over and look at Percy. No amount of preparation would have been sufficient. Percy is blurry eyes and tousle haired with sleep, shirtless and heart wrenchingly lovely.

Monty struggles to catch his breath.

“I said loudly,” Percy says, “not wisely. I know that people have accused you of being loud in the past.”

“In many different circumstances,” Monty quips before he can stop himself. He bites at his lip, feeling himself go bright red. It feels abruptly, terrible inappropriate to say something like that. To let those words hover between them, when Percy had—when they had.

But Percy just tilts his head back and laughs. Monty follows the line of Percy’s throat with his eyes. He wonders what Percy would do if he leaned in and pressed his lips to the faint beat of Percy’s pulse. Shove him away, probably.

“I don’t doubt that,” Percy says.

“I could show you?” Monty says and then wonders if he can get across the room and throw himself out of Percy’s window before Percy could catch him.

Percy stops laughing.

“Uh.”

Monty sits up abruptly, and Percy is forced to let him go. “God, I’m starved. Do you still make those egg things?”

Percy catches Monty’s wrist as he goes to stand. “Monty.”

For a moment, Monty just stares at Percy’s hand around his wrist. Then he shakes it off with a laugh. “Come on, Percy.” He has no follow-up to that.

Percy withdraws his hands to his lap, staring down at his own hands. Monty stares at them too, watching as Percy’s fingers twine together. “You’re getting reckless, Monty,” Percy says. “I’m worried about you.”

Monty scoffs. “Please.”

“I know that you say that the,” Percy coughs, “the Tape thing doesn’t bother you—”

“It doesn’t.”

“But you can’t deny that it’s changed other things. Like how often you can go out. Like,” he hesitates, “like what you can do when you go out.”

“Percy,” Monty says, and stops. He has nowhere to go. Percy isn’t wrong. He’s just not right.

“So I’m saying. Stop going out. Stop putting yourself in danger, because someday you’re going to get yourself killed and I—well, I don’t know if you noticed but I don’t have any other friends.”

“Oh, that’s cheating!” Monty protests, and if Percy thinks that Monty doesn’t see the way his mouth twitches up, he’s deluded. “And I’m not going to die,” he adds, belatedly.

“That may have been a bit dramatic,” Percy concedes. Monty holds up his thumb and finger a half inch apart. “But,” he takes a deep breath. “I think that whatever you were getting, you’re not getting it anymore. And I’m saying—come to me.”

Monty feels his stomach drop, and he can’t tell if it’s a good or a bad feeling. Percy is, Percy is offering to have sex with Monty. To keep him out of trouble. To tell him what to do, and tell him he did well. But it’s out of pity, out of concern. Monty feels sick with conflicting emotions.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Percy adds. If Monty just burst into tears right here, would Percy find that strange. “I mean, people have sex with their friends all the time, right?”

“Friends with benefits,” Monty confirms the term. And one of the parties isn’t usually unbearably in love with another.

“Exactly.” Percy is smiling at him. His hands are clenched tight in his lap. “Is that a yes?”

Monty reaches out and smooths the line of Percy’s knuckles. It would be chance to touch Percy. To be touched by Percy.

It’s a terrible idea. It would destroy him.

Monty has never been good at saying no to terrible ideas.

He tugs Percy’s hand into his, and raises it to his lips. He can still remember the feeling of this hand, these fingers, inside his mouth. He could never have said no to this.

“Yes.” He presses a kiss to the knuckles. It’s a sentimental move, a lovers move, but Monty can pretend, just for a second—

Percy sucks in a sharp breath and yanks his hand back. “Good,” he says. He doesn’t quite rub the mark of Monty’s lips off his hand, but his thumb keeps brushing the mark, like he wants to scrape it away but doesn’t dare.

“Good.” Monty feels tired. He wants to climb back into this bed that smells like Percy and pull the blankets over his head and sleep for forever.

“Monty?”

“Yes?”

“The egg things are called omelettes.”

Monty’s mouth twitches up into a smile. “Yeah. Those things. Can you make some?”

Percy heaves a great sigh. “Yes, alright. Ham and cheese?”

“Yes, please!” Monty fakes a smile he doesn’t feel. Watching Percy roll out of bed is lovely and devastating. Lovely, because Percy is down to his t-shirt and boxers. Devastating to watch Percy leave a bed they had slept in but hadn’t slept in, and to know what an unattainable dream he was.

“You left a spare shirt here last month, top drawer!” Percy calls. “Get changed, you smell like a club!”

Monty doesn’t dignify that with a reply, but a cursory smell-test reveals that Percy is correct. It makes something warm unfurl in his chest to pull one of his own shirts out of Percy’s dresser, like it belongs here. Like he belongs here.

A glint of metal out of the corner of his eye catches his attention and he looks closer. There, to the left of the dresser, tucked into a corner with the dust bunnies and discarded things, is the key. The key that Percy had used to assure Monty’s consent. The key that Monty had used as an excuse to give himself to Percy.

And it’s here, on the floor like garbage.

The thought sticks in his throat like bile, and he gets down onto his knees. He has to stretch, it’s further back than he’s thought.

“Monty?” Percy calls from the kitchen.

“Coming!” Monty replies, his voice steady and sure. He feels the key under his fingertips and pulls it closer. It’s still lovely, a piece of history in his hands. He closes his fingers around it. Percy won’t miss it. Not if he’d tossed it aside like this. Not when it was so clearly unwanted.

Monty puts it into his pocket.

 

* * *

 

To his mother’s delight, and Felicity’s dismay, Felicity arrives home just in time to go with the family to Caroline Darby’s coming out party.

“Bad enough I had to go to my own,” Felicity mutters to Monty across the table. “I don’t even know Caroline.”

“Caroline was a friend of yours, wasn’t she, Felicity?” their mother asks. Felicity rolls her eyes at Monty.

“Yes, Mother.” In an undertone to Monty, she adds, “Friend is anyone in the same age group as you, right?”

“To the parentals, yes,” Monty returns. Felicity seems so much more herself than she ever was under the roof of their parents’ house. So much richer, easier to smile, easier to joke.

“Is Percy coming out with you?” she asks. Her mouth quirks up in a smirk when Monty chokes on his coffee.

Monty waves away his mother. “No, I’m fine, I’m fine.” He glares at Felicity. It has no discernable effect, but Monty has never been known for his glowers. “You’re a demon child,” he hisses at her.

Felicity grins outright as she bends her head to tuck into her breakfast. “So that’s still happening then?”

“Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.” He takes another sip of coffee. “Yes.” Then, at Felicity’s smug look, “but not like that.”

“What… other way is there?” she asks, looking honestly confused. Monty shoots a look at his mother.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He wants to talk about it. He wants to shout from the roofs about how Percy Newton willingly touches him, kisses him. He also wants to never talk about it ever. Never wants anyone to know about how Percy only wants this because he thinks Monty will implode in on himself. How he might be right.

Felicity looks at him for a long moment. “Okay,” she says. She makes a motion like she wants to touch his arm, then pulls back. “Okay.”

Monty flounders to change the topic as quickly as possible, desperate to escape the soft look on her face, like he is something worthy of pity.

“You’re home much earlier than I expected,” he says. “I didn’t expect you back until right before school started.”

“Um. Monty, it’s August.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it really is. I’m home on time, two weeks before school starts back up.”

Monty can feel his mouth working. “That can’t be right.” He checks his wrist, as if he actually has a watch there. As if a watch would tell him the date. Felicity holds out her phone, and she’s right. August is almost over.

“Oh, God.”

“Would you like to sit down?” Felicity asks solicitously. “A fainting couch, perhaps?” She gestures. “Fetch the smelling salts.”

Thank God none of the servants are in the room to hear. Monty checks to make sure his mother still isn’t paying attention (she isn’t. She never is) and flips Felicity the bird. She fakes a scandalized look.

“I thought you’d be glad to go back?” Felicity asks.

“Yes, so glad. Another year of studying,” he ignores the skeptical sound that Felicity makes, “dreary teachers and hundreds of people who have now seen the family jewels.”

“I thought hundreds of people at St. Andrews had already seen them?”

“Your faith in me is touching. Dozens, at most.”

Felicity makes a face. “I regret the turn this conversation as taken.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Let’s agree to never discuss your bits again.”

“Agreed.”

They shake on it.

 

* * *

 

Percy comes by an hour before they have to leave for the Darbys’, looking lovely and perfect  as always.

His hair is already escaping where he tried to calm it down. Percy has the sort of unruly hair that lends itself more to being spiked up then settled down. Monty wonders how mad Percy would be if Monty ran his fingers through it, dislodged the carefully ordered style.

Percy catches his eye and the look in them tells Monty that Percy not only knows exactly what he’s thinking but also that he would be very displeased if Monty acted on it.

In contrast to Percy’s perfectly pressed suit, Monty is only half-dressed. The servants had laid out a suit but it was terribly drab and he’d been trying to find his red silk shirt. Then the shirt got too warm so he had unbuttoned it to fiddle with his tie instead.

He only has it halfway done when he hears Malory’s claws on the floor.

“Good Lord, Monty, are you a guest or the entertainment?”

Monty tilts his chin up, still trying to get the angle on the tie. “Hm?”

“You look like an extra at Chippendales.”

Monty gives Percy a saucy look in the mirror. “Have a lot of experience with Chippendales, Percy?”

Percy doesn’t reply, just watches Monty fiddle with the tie. “Oh, for God’s sake.” He stands in front of Monty, batting his hands away from the fabric. “You’re only making it worse.”

Monty feels his breath catch in his throat as Percy works on his tie. His fingers brush Monty’s chin, his neck, the exposed skin of his collarbone.

“You’re supposed to button the shirt before doing the tie, you lunatic.”

“It was hot,” Monty says petulantly.

Percy mutters something under his breath which sounds a lot like ‘I bet,’ but steps back before Monty can ask him. “There.”

“You don’t think the red shirt is too much?” Monty asks.

“I think that having it open like that will be a bit of a distraction.”

“A welcome one, I should think,” Monty replies, but he dutifully starts to do up the buttons. When he gets to his neck he has to stop because it turns out that the tie is in his way.

“Monty, you are hopeless,” Percy says, laughing. He steps forward again and loosens the tie enough to slip Monty’s collar under and through, then smoothes the lapels of his collar flat. Monty sneaks a look at the mirror. They look good together, Percy taller and darker, fiddling with Monty’s collar. The blue of his tie brings out his eyes. A blue shirt would have been better, but Percy isn’t much of a risk-taker when it comes to fashion. Especially not at an event like a coming out party.

“There.”

“Thanks,” Monty says. For a moment, Percy just looks down at him, his fingers on the knot of Monty’s tie. For a desperate, breathless moment, Monty thinks that Percy will grab on the tie and yank. Maybe use it to pull Monty into a kiss, to—

Percy steps away.

Monty takes a deep breath, gets himself under control, and goes to pet Malory.

They meet Felicity on the stairs. She’s pretty enough in green, but she’s refused to do anything with her hair or makeup. Monty feels somewhat charmed by this. Felicity will always be Felicity. She had returned with her hair cut above her chin, to their mother’s horror. “It was hot, and in my way,” was all the explanation Felicity had been willing to give.

“Hello, Percy. Lothario.” She nods to each of them.

Monty looks back down at his shirt. “You’re sure the—”

“You look wonderful,” Percy says, taking his elbow and tugging him down the stairs. “They’ll care more if you’re late then what you’re wearing.”

“I won’t,” Monty mutters.

“The sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave,” Felicity says. She is, of course, wrong. They can’t leave until the ceremony is over, but they can always get there after it’s started.

Nevertheless, Monty allows himself to be shuffled into the car.

“Felicity Montague, is that a book in your purse?” Monty asks, gleeful.

“It’s for school.”

Monty reaches out. “It’s so heavy!”

“Because it’s a medical text, for God’s sake, Monty.” She tugs her bag out of his hands. Monty settles into the seat beside Percy, letting their shoulders brush.

“You know, they have those on your phones now.”

“It’s rude to be on your phone at a party.”

“Oh, of course,” Monty says. “A medical text however, much more mannerly.”

Felicity makes a rude gesture at him, and Percy just laughs at them both. Traitor.

Monty leans a little bit harder on Percy, pretending it’s the motion of the car, and thinks that the evening might not go terribly after all.

* * *

It’s going terribly. Monty is fairly sure that Caroline is tipsy, which, kudos to her. Monty wishes he could be as well, but Felicity has been slapping his hand away every time he reaches for a champagne flute from a passing waiter.

On his other side, a woman is telling Percy how much she enjoyed ‘That American movie about the space women. Hidden Figures, you know,’ which Percy is bearing with a polite smile. Neither he nor Monty has ever seen it. Monty prefers his American movies with more explosions, and Percy is a snob and prefers not to watch American movies at all.

“How long do you think before we can sneak out?” Felicity mutters to him. He has never been more proud to be her brother.

“At least another hour,” he responds. “Rescue Percy for me, would you? He’s much too polite, and he made me promise not to cause a scene.”

Felicity raises her eyebrows. “You, cause a scene? Never.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I’m doing this for Percy, not for you.”

Felicity moves up to Percy and the woman he’s speaking to. “Oh! Percy! There you are.” As approaches go, it’s a flimsy one. If the lady has seen her practically right next to Percy for the past fifteen minutes then they’re screwed. But Felicity doesn’t even give the woman the chance to catch her out. She simply grabs Percy’s elbow. “Dance with me.”

She gives Monty a look as she passes, and Monty has no idea what it’s supposed to mean. Probably that he owes her; she hates dancing. Still, she and Percy have been to all the same society classes that Monty had, so they’re both good at it.

Monty manages, at long last, to grab a passing champagne flute and sips while watching the two of them dance. Percy only steps on Felicity’s toes twice, but she’s already trodden on him at least thrice that. Monty hides a smile in his drink.

“Did you know, sir, that it is quite unmannerly to leave a girl without a dance partner?” comes a voice at his elbow. He turns to see a very pretty redhead around his own age beside him.

“Is that so?”

She grins up at him. It’s a very wicked grin. “It is indeed.”

“Well, I do hate to be unmannerly. Would you to me the honor of this dance?” He holds out his hand, and she accepts with a curtsey.

“May I have the name of my charming rescuer?”

Monty gives her a sidelong look, unsure if she is being polite or if she has truly managed to avoid reading a single gossip rag all summer. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say rescuer,” he defers. “Assister, at most.”

“You sell yourself short,” she laughs. “You are no assistant. I am Lady Catherine DeLemar.”

Monty raises her hand to his lips. “Charmed. Monty.”

Her laugh is a pretty, tinkling thing, and she lets him lead her into the first steps of the dance. “Is that a first name or a last time?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“How very mysterious.”

Monty gives Catherine his most charming smile, and almost stumbles when someone bumps into him. He turns his head to see Felicity giving him a filthy look, still dancing with Percy. Percy is watching his own hand on Felicity’s waist.

Monty glares right back at Felicity. Even if he and this girl were doing anything, which they certainly were not, it wouldn’t be any of her damn business.

“So sorry,” Felicity says through her teeth, and then the dance carries them away.

“Your girlfriend?” Catherine asks. Monty makes a face.

“My sister.”

“She didn’t seem very pleased you were dancing.”

Monty is in no mood to be charitable to Felicity, “She’s rarely pleased by anything.”

“Shame,” Catherine’s voice is teasing. “And her partner was so handsome too. Well, he seems to be popular enough.”

Monty’s head whips around. Sure enough, Felicity has already given up on the dance, and Percy has managed to gather two, no three lovely girls to his side. Each of them, Monty notices bitterly, at least Monty’s height.

“You know, Lady Catherine, I do believe that the band is about to play one of my favorite songs,” Monty says, and offers his hand again. It’s bold,asking for a second dance before the first has finished, but he can see one of the girls put her hand on Percy’s arm and Monty wants to be doing anything else.

Catherine quirks a brow at him, clearly unimpressed. “Does that line work for you?”

Monty gives her his best boyish smile. “You’ll have to let me know.”

Catherine laughs and takes his hand. “It wasn’t the line. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I’m terribly aware,” Monty replies. This song is faster, but Catherine keeps up perfectly. There is something that Monty loves about a good dance. The feeling of a partner who could match him, the way the music filled him up, letting his body fall into the familiar rhythms and patterns.

When he looks again, Percy meets his eyes.

Monty snatches another flute of champagne and downs the entire thing between one spin and the next.

“You know,” Catherine says. “I never did catch your full name. You look terribly familiar.”

“Lord Henry Montague, at your service. But no one calls me Henry.”

Catherine drops his hands and steps away. “I see.”

Monty falters, confused. They’re still in the middle of the dance floor.

“The one they’ve been writing about in those dreadful papers?”

Oh. “I’m afraid rumors of my debauchery are greatly exaggerated.”

Catherine takes a step back from him. “Oh, I very much doubt that.” She gives him a filthy, scathing look. “I thought you only slept with men.”

“I don’t discriminate,” Monty says, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Her lips curl up. “I’ll bet.”

Yes, a healthy dose of biphobia was just what this conversation was missing.

They are attracting attention. The dancers around them are stopping as well. Monty can hear the whispers and the titters, knows abruptly that every single one of them knows now who he is and what the papers have been saying.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the voice comes from the left, and it’s like a hallelujah chorus. Percy looks endearingly nervous. “But I was wondering if I might have this dance?”

Catherine sniffs. “I’m in the middle of—”

“Not you,” Percy says shortly, and Monty catches at least one person in the onlookers gasping. “Him.” He turns to face Monty and holds out a hand expectedly.

It’s utterly ludicrous. It’s a terrible idea. It will almost definitely make a scene.

“I would be honored.” He settles his hand in Percy’s, feeling the warmth of his palm, the calluses on his fingers. The music is still playing, even though most of the dancing has ground to a halt.

Percy puts his other hand on Monty’s shoulder and pulls him closer. Monty feels his breath catch in his throat. Percy ducks his head to speak into Monty’s ear. “You’ll have to lead, you’re better than me.”

“I’m tragically aware,” Monty says, countless emotions buoying up in him. “Not to worry though, you have plenty of other skills.”

“That is a comfort to me, in my darkest, most danceless moments,” Percy says.

Monty mostly sticks to a simple boxstep, and Percy doesn’t step on him even once. Even better, Monty manages not to do something horrid, like step in too close, rest his head on Percy’s shoulder, lean in a steal a kiss.

By the end of the song, he gets daring enough to nudge Percy into a twirl, and Percy executes it perfectly. When they come together again, they’re closer.

‘No room for Jesus,’ Monty thinks hysterically.

“People are staring,” Percy says into his ear. His breath raises goosebumps on the back of Monty’s neck.

“It’s because we’re both so lovely.”

“Yes, that must be in. Not because we’re two blokes dancing.”

“Oh, they can fuck off,” Monty says a tad too loudly. “It’s 2017, not 1720.”

Percy winces a bit at the volume, but he still says “Nice play on words there. Numbers? Play on numbers?”

“I’ll take it,” Monty says. He can tell the music is winding down. The song is going to end. He desperately wants a drink. “Thank you for the dance.”

Percy sketches a little bow and Monty can’t help but be charmed by him all over again. “Thank you, good sir.”

They head back to Malory together. What would it be like, to be able to take Percy’s arm, take his hand.

“Have you seen Felicity?” Monty asks.

Percy jerks his head a some hedges. “There is a bench behind there, I think she went to go read. Before…” Before Monty went and made a scene again. Before Percy saved him from public humiliation. He’s just glad that Felicity didn’t see it.

“Ugh. Reading,” Monty says. Percy elbows him. “Ugh, benches,” Monty amends. Percy lifts his hand to hide a smile but Monty sees it anyway.

“Why do you ask?”

“I thought we could escape this abysmal event before I,” he raises his hands to do air quotes. “Make a garish display of myself.” More of a garish display.

Percy’s mouth twists. “Monty…”

“This way, you said?” He sets off towards the hedges. The Darbys have a very nice garden, with what could lightly be called a maze in the center, high hedge rows partitioning off places to hide. Monty has kissed many a girl in this maze. And not a few boys. It’s a good maze. He glances at Percy and quickly discards the idea.  He isn’t sure what Percy wants from this whatever, but public makeouts probably don’t make the list.

What was he doing again? Looking for Felicity, right.

They find her stretched out on a bench, taking up the entirety of it, book held up in front of her face.

“You’re going to need glasses if you keep that up,” Monty says, leaning over the back of the bench.

Felicity starts and flails out. Monty sees her arm coming towards him and flinches violently. Her hand misses his face by an inch.

“God, Monty, don’t do that!” Felicity says. Monty smiles, hoping it doesn’t look forced. Felicity hadn’t noticed. He meets Percy’s eyes for a split second and then drops them. Percy had.

“I didn’t think anyone could be that engrossed in a medical text. I stand corrected.”

“It’s very fascinating,” Felicity mutters, looking vaguely embarrassed.

“If you say so.” Monty comes around to the other side of the bench and swings her feet around so that he can sit. Then, trying to be considerate, he scootches in closer to her to make room for Percy.

He can see Felicity roll her eyes but she mercifully says nothing as Percy sits down. It’s a tight fit, being a bench designed for two, but Felicity is petite and Monty isn’t exactly a behemoth himself.

“Why are you taking up the whole bench?”

Felicity wrinkles her nose. “Men kept coming up and trying to sit next to me.”

Monty gasps. “Felicity Montague. Have you attracted suitors?”

“The Montague name seems to have enticed a few,” Felicity says acidly. “But my personality seems to have dissuaded them.”

“You failed to woo them with your disdain, disapproval, and medical textbooks? I’m shocked.”

“I didn’t want to woo them.”

“Again, shocked!”

“You do enough wooing for the both of us,” Felicity says. It’s clear that she means it as a joke, a continuation of their teasing, but in combination with the rest of this summer, with the heat of Percy pressed up against his side, Monty feels his smile stutter. He draws it back.

“I can’t help being so naturally charming.”

“Hmph,” Felicity says. “Please say that you’re here because we can go.”

“I’m here so that we can go. I have already mildly scandalized the party by dancing with Percy, my duties here have been fulfilled.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Monty knows that they were a mistake. Felicity’s eyes lit up, and he can actually feel Percy go tense at his side.

“You two danced?” Felicity asks gleefully.

“We did and it was wonderful.” Too much, fuck, way too much. “Percy didn’t even manage to step on me. I think we’ve shocked the peerage enough for one night.”

“I do live to help you shock and dismay,” Percy says. When Monty looks at him, his mouth is smiling, but his eyes are not. Monty looks away.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Please,” Felicity says, pushing herself off the bench.

Monty text their driver and he’s ready out front when they get out.

“I think the party went well,” Percy says, leaning against the car door.

“I consider any party where Monty keeps his clothes on the entire time to be a success,” Felicity quips.

“It was one time!”

“One time is one too many, Monty,” Percy says gently. He even puts his hand on Monty’s arm, like a caring doctor delivering bad news.

“Oh, get off,” Monty shakes him away. “I hate you both.”

Felicity laughs. “You don’t! You love us!”

“Lies and defamation,” Monty replies.

They both tease him back to the manor, recounting some of his worst party memories while Monty sulks between them. When they finally wind down, Percy says, “Felicity, we weren’t expecting you back until the end of summer.”

“You too, Percy?” Felicity sounds honestly surprised. “I mean, I expect it from Monty, he’s basically useless—”

“Hey!”

“But you’re usually pretty together.”

Percy looks between them blankly. “You’ve lost me.”

Felicity sighs, the sigh of a girl who is painfully aware that she is the most intelligent one in the room, or in this instance, the car. “It’s the end of summer now. You gents go back to school in a little over a week.”

Percy’s mouth falls open a bit and he looks to Monty for confirmation. “That can’t be right.”

“Afraid so. We shall once again be shackled to the bonds of academia.”

“But it’s July!”

“It’s late August,” Felicity says in exasperation.

Percy opens and closes his mouth. “But that can’t be right.”

Felicity throws up her hands. “I can’t help you, I really can’t.”

“I thought it was July too, if that helps,” Monty says.

“It does not.” Percy puts his face in his hands. “How long do we have?”

“It’s school, not a cancer diagnosis,” Felicity says, just as Monty says

“Ten days.” He knows why he’s dreading school, but he can’t imagine what Percy is dreading. Percy has always enjoyed school. Not in the same way that Felicity does, but no one enjoys school the way Felicity does.

“God,” Percy tips his head back against the headrest. “What the hell happened to this summer.”

“Monty’s penis,” Felicity says.

Monty makes an unholy shrieking noise of indignation, and Percy splutters.

“You know, because it ended up on the internet and that proceeded to consume his entire life?” she continues innocently. Fooling exactly no one. “What did you think I meant?”

“I hate you,” Monty hisses under his breath. “It didn’t end up on the internet,” he continues at a normal volume. “This isn’t Game of Thrones. Pictures of it ended up on the internet. There is a difference.”

“Videos, technically,” Felicity counters.

“Can we please stop talking about Monty’s penis.” Percy’s voice is strained.

Felicity opens her mouth, a wicked gleam in her eyes, and Monty lunges over the space between them and slaps a hand over her mouth. She licks his palm and he makes a disgusted, high pitched noise but doesn’t pull away.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Percy says, voice a pitch higher than usual. “You don’t know where his hands have been.”

Felicity jerks her head and Monty refuses to let go. They end up in a tussle. Percy almost gets kicked in the stomach. Monty definitely gets bitten.

It’s only the driver clearing his throat that stops them. Monty and Felicity freeze. Felicity is pressed against the door, Monty half on top of her with his hand still over her mouth and one leg braced over Percy against the other car door. Percy is leaned as far back in his seat as he can. Felicity has one hand over Monty’s and the other in Monty’s hair, pulling viscously.

“We have arrived,” the driver says serenely.    

 

* * *

 

They pile out of the car, avoiding the gaze of the driver.

“You’re staying?” Monty asks as Percy moves next to him.

Percy hold his eyes for a long moment. “Yes, I’m staying.”

Monty swallows. “Good. Great.”

Felicity leans into him as she passes. “Smooth, bro.”

He tries to elbow her, but she dodges and heads into the house.

“Ignore her,” Monty says. Percy grins.

“You always say that.”

“And I am always right.”

Monty heads into the house, Percy following. His Mother is still at the Darbys’, having driven separately. It was a hard-won victory, but it eventually became more than clear that it was better if Monty had a way to get home that wasn’t dependent on waiting for his parents. Mostly because they would usually prefer he made a polite appearance and then utterly disappear.

Percy edges closer to Monty and puts a hand on the small of his back. It’s a light touch, innocent, and it sears through Monty like fire. It’s not that Percy isn’t physically affectionate, he is, but this is something different. Something proprietary. Possessive. Even in the safety of the Montague manor, it feels daring and illicit.

Even so, Percy lifts the hand when they pass one of the servants. Monty wants to protest, drag it back, hold it until Percy’s palm is imprinted on his own, but he doesn’t.

“So,” Percy says once the room to Monty’s room has clicked shut. “What movie should we watch?”

“You must be joking,” Monty says flatly. Truth be told, with Percy, he would watch any movie under the sun. Still, he had been hoping…

Percy grins, beaming like he had just told the best joke. “I’m joking.”

Monty grins back, delighted by Percy’s delight. “Great.”

“Great.”

For a moment, they just stand there, staring at one another. Then, Percy’s smile fades slightly, and he swallows. “So.”

“So,” Monty echoes. He has no idea where to go from here.

Percy swallows. “What do you want?”

Monty hates it when he asks that. Monty has no answer. Nothing that he can articulate. Nothing that doesn’t live so deep inside him, secret and hidden, that to bring it to light would be like ripping a part of himself free and holding it out for Percy to see.

The entire point of this is that he doesn’t have to say what he wants, that Percy will just tell him what to do, and Monty will do it. That he can be good for Percy.

Well, Monty has always ascribed to the philosophy that actions speak louder than words anyway. He strides across the space between them and tries to tug Percy into a kiss. Their height difference is enough that he is ever so slightly on his toes to reach, and it makes him feel deliciously unbalanced.

Percy puts a hand over Monty’s mouth. For a moment, they look at one another, their faces inches apart. Then Monty practically throws himself back.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m down for,” Percy makes a gesture that seems to mean, sex in general. “Just, no kissing. I don’t want to forget what this is.”

He doesn’t want Monty to forget what this is, he means. A casual fuck between friends. Something Monty needs and Percy gives him.

“What is this, _Pretty Woman_?” Monty asks.

Percy rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Monty, it’s _Pretty Woman_.”

Percy steps forward, cautiously. Monty lets him, feeling hollowed out and aching. Percy’s hands settle his waist, pulling Monty against him. Monty holds on to Percy’s shoulders and presses against him. It’s enough to feel the heat of Percy’s body, the touch of his skin. For a moment, Monty let’s himself pretend that this is something real, something that they both want equally.

Percy pulls back with a sucking breath. “Okay.” He takes another breath, Monty can feel Percy’s chest moving against his own. “Okay.”

“I am,” Monty assures him.

“What? Oh. Good.” Percy cups Monty’s face in his hands. “I can’t believe—” he cuts himself off. “Go get on the bed.”

“I don’t know,” Monty says, tilting his head up invitingly. “Last time you just let me fall asleep. I don’t know if I should trust you this time.”

Something in Percy’s face goes still, and his light touch on Monty’s cheek moves to grip his chin. “You can trust me.” His hold is firm and hard. All take. Monty melts onto it, swaying into Percy’s supporting weight. Percy pulls away just as Monty leans into him and it’s only his firm grip that stops Monty from falling. “Now. Get on the bed.”

God, yes.

Monty sketches a quick salute. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Percy slaps his ass. “Now.”

It’s almost embarrassing, how quickly Monty goes from mildly interested to about to lose his fucking mind. Still, he keeps his pace slow and measured as he heads towards his bed and stretches out on it slowly, teasingly. There has to be something about him that keeps Percy coming back, and Monty is well aware of what he looks like.

He stretches, one long, hedonistic arch. He barely completes it before Percy is on him, pinning his shoulders to the bed.

“You’re a tease, Henry Montague.”

Monty goes tense at that, then carefully makes himself relax before Percy can see.

“You think just because you’re so fucking gorgeous,” Percy presses a kiss to the skin behind Monty’s ear, “that I’m going to go easy on you.” He leans in, so that his lips are pressed to the shell of Monty’s ear. “You’re wrong.”

Oh God. Monty feels like his entire body is erupting into flames. Then Percy is gone, standing at the foot of the bed and just watching. Monty’s entire body arches up, trying to follow the heat of his body, and coming down in an ache of disappointment.

“Take off your clothes,” Percy commands, and how did Percy, _Percy Newton_ of all people, get so bloody goddamn good at this.

How unfair it is that Percy has proven himself to be perfect even in this and still Monty cannot have him the way that he wants.

“You want to see me?” Monty asks coyly. He loosens his tie first, the one that Percy had tied for him, the collar that Percy had put on him and lets it hang loose around his neck.

“Yes,” Percy hisses, and his eyes are following Monty’s fingers as Monty begins to undo the buttons on his shirt. Monty loves it, loves the way that Percy’s eyes drag down each inch of skin as it becomes visible, loves the way that Percy unconsciously licks his lips.

He is terribly aware of how he is stretching a tent in the front of his fancy trousers, almost moans when his fingers brush against it as he undoes the final button of his shirt and lets it hang open on his chest.

“Keep going,” Percy says, watching avidly as Monty fiddles with his belt. Monty whines under his breath, wanting desperately for it to be Percy who touches him, Percy who slips his belt through the loops and slowly, agonisingly, undoes the button and zip on his trousers.

But Percy is still just standing there, watching him with a gaze that threatens to set Monty on fire.

Monty arches his hips to get his trousers and pants off, feeling his cock bob against his stomach and groaning at the sensation. Then he is naked, lying on the bed under Percy’s hot, heavy gaze.

He can tell that Percy is aroused, can see Percy’s cock as a hard outline in his own freshly pressed suit. It’s a look that threatens to undo Monty completely. Percy is still buttoned up, his blazer still buttoned, his hair just barely escaping his careful styling, and the front of his trousers stretched obscenely.

“Please,” Monty whines, writhing on the sheets, already feeling over sensitised and desperate.

“No,” Percy says firmly. “You stay there. Let me look at you.”

Monty clutches his hands at his side, struggling to breathe. Struggling not to burst into flames. Why won’t Percy just touch him?

“Touch yourself,” Percy says.

Monty quirks a brow at him and places his hand spread flat on his belly.

Percy’s mouth tilts up in a smile and it runs through Monty like fine liquor, as good as any touch.

“You know what I meant,” Percy says.

“I’m touching myself,” Monty replies. “I’m doing as you say.”

Percy shakes his head, all fond amusement. “Is that how it’s going to be?”

Monty does a deliberately attractive stretch shimmy while still keeping his hand flat below his navel.

“Fine.” Percy’s cuts through the air. “Put your hand on your cock, Monty, but don’t move it.”

Monty moans at the first touch of his hand on his cock, and it’s an effort of will not to stroke himself. Lying here, with Percy’s eyes on him, with Percy’s voice in his ears, it wouldn’t take much.

“Don’t even think about it,” Percy snaps, “I already told you what to do. You’ll do it.”

Fuck. Monty almost spills over his hand right then and there but manages to contain himself. He does moan though, full throated and loud.

“We’re not alone here, Monty,” Percy says reprovingly. “You’ll have to be quiet here.”

“The servants won’t say anything,” Monty says.

Percy’s gaze sharpens. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” Monty replies. God, he can still feels his hand on his cock. The urge to thrust into his own grip is overwhelming.

“And you know this from personal experience?” Percy asks. His tone is dangerous.

Still, Monty feels stripped open and raw, he can’t give anything other than the truth. “Yes.” God, he can hardly think. “Yes, Percy, please.”

“Do you have a lot of company over?” Percy asks, his voice even and level. At Monty’s silence, he snaps “Answer me.”

“Yes!” Monty says. Is there any other word in the English language?

Percy moves, one instant standing over Monty at the foot of the bed, the next leaning over him on the side.

“Change of plans,” he says. They could be discussing the weather. “I was going to watch while you got yourself off,” he speaks over the whine that Monty makes, “but now I’m going to fuck you.”

“Yes, please, Percy, please.” Monty can hear himself begging, can’t seem to stop it, but the hand he has around himself is still.

“And you’re not allowed to say a word.”

Monty draws in air. “I already said, the servants won’t—”

“I don’t care,” Percy says, and he is a sudden, welcome heat along Monty’s side. “I don’t care if you’ve screamed loud enough to wake the entire house for Richard Peele or whoever else you’ve brought up here. This is me, and I say that I want you to. Keep. Silent.”

Monty’s mouth clamps shut, and he feels utterly undone, utterly exposed. Who else has he had here? He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t care. He nods, holding Percy’s gaze.

“Good.” Percy leans over and steals a kiss. He’s still fully clothed, and his the fabric of his blazer is rough on Monty’s bare skin. “Where do you keep everything?”

Monty nods his head at his bedside table, and Percy rolls his eyes. “You’re such a cliche.” He pulls out a condom and some lube and tosses them both onto the bed beside Monty.

When he stands up, Monty feels his entire side go cold, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

“Get yourself ready,” Percy says. “Slowly.” As he speaks, he peels off his blazer and folds it carefully, setting in on the chair beside him.

Monty has to bite back a whine, but he manages. He drags his fingers slowly over his cock as he lets go, feeling his hips jerk up to follow the motion, but Percy doesn’t reprimand him for it.

Monty can feel his fingers trembling as he coats them liberally in lube, can feel a hot flush climbing up his skin.

Percy is unbuttoning his shirt, and Monty watches with avid fascination as more and more dark skin is revealed. He feels ridiculous, with his own shirt still open on his chest and his tie undone around his neck.

“Go on,” Percy says. “Show me how much you want this.”

Monty spreads his legs, touches his fingers to the budded skin, prodding at his entrance, stretching a little, just a little, but not letting even a fingertip slip inside.

“You love being watched, don’t you? Love knowing how lovely you are, how perfect you look like this?” Percy asks, his voice a low murmur. His gaze is fixed on Monty’s fingers.

Monty thrust his fingers in, two at once, his entire body arching up with the burn of it. He hears Percy curse under his breath and he has to force his eyes back open, not willing to miss a second. Percy is still half-dressed, his shirt open to his waist.

“Keep going,” Percy whispers. Slowly, almost absently, he strips his shirt off, folds it and put it next to his blazer. Fuck, when did taking proper care of one’s clothing become a turn-on?

He begins to fuck himself on his own fingers, his hips moving in time with his arm. Percy reaches for his own waistband and seems to forget what he was doing, watching as Monty moves. Monty has to bite his lip against the moans climbing up his throat, threatening to tear him apart. His fingers aren’t enough, he wants—he needs—

He reaches for his cock with his free hand.

“No,” Percy snaps. “Not yet.”

Only a supreme act of will keeps the whine of protest, of desperation, from breaking out into the world, and Monty ends up fucking himself down harder on his fingers, hitting his prostate dead on.

He arches up on the bed, his eyes going closed.

“Fuck,” Percy says. When Monty opens his eyes, he almost cries because Percy is palming himself through his best trousers, running one hand over the bulge.

Monty doesn’t even realize he’s gone still until Percy stops touching himself. “I didn’t say to stop,” Percy says. His mouth quirks up in a smile that is belied by the flush on his face, running all the way down his chest. “You want this, don’t you?” He gives himself another stroke and Monty has to turn his head away or this is all going to be over very quickly.

“Don’t look away,” Percy says, and Monty drags his gaze back. “You’re here with me, Monty, not anyone else.”

As if Monty could forget.

“Say it,” Percy says. “Say my name.”

For a second, Monty thinks that he won’t be able to do it, that so much of his focus has been kept on keeping silent that his vocal cords have frozen over.

Then his hips jerk without his consent, and it tears a moan from his throat. “Percy,” he cries, and just hearing it, suspended in the air between them, the irrefutable proof that he is here with Percy, it’s almost too much. He fucks himself in earnest, and each thrust brings with it a cry of Percy’s name.

“That’s good,” Percy says, and Monty feels fingers around his wrist, pulling his fingers away from his entrance. “You did so good.”

“Percy,” Monty says, and at this range, he can see the way Percy’s pupils flare wide at the sound.

“Good, that’s good. You can say my name, but nothing else. Understand?”

Monty nods.

Percy looks down at him for a long moment, then grabs the two ends of Monty’s undone tie and uses it to pull Monty up, holding his gaze. “You’re here with me, Monty.”

When Percy lets him go, Monty sprawls on the bed, feeling dazed. He hears Percy opening the condom and pulls himself together enough to watch the mouthwatering sight of Percy rolling the condom on.

Monty wants to tell him that it’s fine, that he’s clean, that Percy doesn't need to—but he’s not allowed to talk. That’s probably for the best, he couldn’t bear it if he offered and Percy didn’t believe him.

Then Percy is lining himself up, and Monty shoves the thought away.

“Ready?” Percy asks, and Monty shoves himself down, taking Percy in with one delicious thrust.

“Percy!” Monty cries, because Percy is bigger than three fingers, and it’s so, so good.

“Holy fuck, Monty,” Percy swears, and Monty loves it so much when Percy swears. “You’re incorrigible.”

Monty whines, and Percy fits his hands to Monty’s hips.

“Back to the old rules,” Percy says. “Don’t move. Or I’ll have to tie you up.”

Oh God. Monty can’t help the noise he makes at that, and Percy’s hips jerks seemingly without control.

“You like that?” Percy asks, and he’s already drawing back to fuck Monty. “Yeah, you do. I can tell.”

He keeps on hand on Monty’s hip and uses the other to lace his fingers with Monty’s, pinning his hand to the pillow above his head. “You want me to tie you up and fuck you, don’t you?”

Noises are spilling out of Monty’s throat as Percy fucks him, as Percy whispers wonderful, filthy things to him. He’s so glad that he can’t say anything else, can’t beg for Percy to tie him down and keep him, to make Monty his. That he can’t say the four letter word that’s all he can think as Percy moves inside him, above him, their fingers laced.

“If I told you to come,” Percy’s voice is ragged and desperate, his hips beginning to stutter out of control, “would you?”

Monty nods frantically. He’s been on the edge since Percy told him to strip, since the first touch of Percy’s fingers on his skin.

“Good,” Percy whispers. “Come for me, Monty. Say my name.”

He thrusts in hard, and Monty—

Monty lets go. He can hear himself saying one name, over and over, his voice breaking into a scream.

He can feel Percy coming, feel Percy shake above him, can hear Percy saying something, but he can’t make out the words past the ringing in his ears.

Every muscle in his body is relaxing, every thought unfurling away from him, every worry falling away. He feels Percy’s fingers on his chin, turning his face up, and he gives Percy a dreamy smile.

“Wow, you’re really,” Percy trails off. Monty struggles to pull himself together, to answer the question on Percy’s face, but Percy smooths his thumb over Monty’s mouth. “No, you’re fine, shh,” and Monty settles again.

For a moment, Percy just watches him. Then he rolls off the bed, and Monty is too relaxed even to worry before Percy is back, a warm cloth in his hands. He can feel Percy cleaning him off, whispering to him how good he is, how well he did.

“I better go,” Percy says, when Monty is cleaned off and Percy has helped him out of his shirt, which will likely never recover. The words are like a gaping chasm opening inside him. He wants to wrap a hand around Percy’s wrist, pull him back, but words feel out of range.

Instead, he just watches as Percy pulls his clothes back on, and leaves with only one backwards glance.

Monty lies there for a long time before he finally manages to crawl under the covers. He reaches, under his pillow and pulls out the old skeleton key, Percy’s skeleton key, and curls his fingers around it. He can feel it biting into is palm. He presses his curls fist to his mouth and closes his eyes.

He pulls the covers over his head and tries to shut out all thought, but it’s awhile before he falls asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! Apologies for the delay. To be perfectly honest, I was just nervous about posting this chapter. Please see the notes at the bottom for a WARNING!!

Monty is hardly ever in a position that he is on time and Percy is not, but when he and his driver, spared for the ride to the train station and nothing else, get to Percy’s apartment, Percy isn’t waiting at the curb with his suitcase. Monty had sent him no less than three texts relaying the varying stages of their arrival, beginning with ‘leaving now’ and ending with ‘almost there,’ which is usually the stage at which Percy moves outside to wait. 

His text of ‘here’ gets no reply either, and his call goes straight to voicemail.

The driver gives him a look in the rearview mirror. Monty pushes the door open. “I’ll go get him. Wait here.” 

He rushes off before the driver can reply. It’s not like Percy to be late, and even less like him to ignore texts and calls. He feels that rush of fear again, that certainty that this is where it begins. That this is where Percy begins to cut Monty out of his life.

He doesn’t knock at the door, just tries the handle and pushes the door open when it turns. 

He stops in the doorway. 

“Good lord, Percy. Were you robbed?”

Percy is on his knees, rummaging around under the couch, and Monty can’t even appreciate the view because the entire apartment has been utterly ransacked. The couch cushions are on the floor. The coffee table has been moved. Through the door to the bedroom, Monty can see that all the sheets are off the bed, and the contents of Percy’s dresser are scattered around the floor. 

Malory lies on what looks like a pile of Percy’s more casual shirts, resting her head on her front paws and looking long-suffering.

Percy’s head jerks up at Monty’s word, and he curses as he hits it on the underside of the couch.

“Monty!” He has to crawl backwards to turn around and Monty tries not to look too interested in the proceedings. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well, I thought maybe we should head to school, but if you’ve decided to skip our final year then I’m in.”

Percy swears again. 

Monty frowns at him. “Seriously, Percy, what’s wrong?” He looks around at the apartment. “Are you even packed? You seemed fine yesterday.”

“Yeah, I’m,” Percy runs his hands through his hair, looking frazzled. “I’m fine. I just, I lost something. I kept thinking it would turn up, but we leave today and I just-- it’s fine.”

Monty looks at him again, taking in the rumpled clothes, the bloodshot eyes. The lack of sheets on the bed. “Have you even slept?”

“I dunno? Probably? How long before we have to leave?”

Monty looks at his phone. “Negative five minutes?” At Percy’s expression, Monty adds, “we probably have another ten before we risk missing the train entirely. What are you looking for? Maybe I can help?”

“No!” Percy’s reply is so vehement that Monty leans back, and even Malory looks up. “I mean, no, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it?” Monty repeats, incredulous. “Percy, your entire dresser has been upended. You dismantled your bed. It’s obviously important.”

“It’s nothing,” Percy says quickly. Monty just looks at him, and Percy seems to wilt under his gaze. “Alright, it’s not nothing. It’s just. It’s personal.”

“Something from your dad?” Monty guesses. 

Percy’s face lights up in relief. “Yes, exactly.”

“Alright,” Monty says slowly. “But if you could just tell me, we could both look for a bit longer.”

Percy’s face falls again. “No,” he trails off. “No, it must have… if it were here I would have found it by now. I’ve already been looking for a few days. I just,” he hesitates. “I didn’t want to leave without it.” 

He looks so sad for a moment that Monty can’t help but reach out, holding Percy’s hand for a moment in his own. Percy gives his hand a small squeeze, then pulls free. 

“I am sorry,” Monty says, meaning it.

Percy sighs. “Thank you.” He clicks his fingers and Malory comes to him, nosing into his palm. Monty steps back, knowing that Percy likes to be around Malory when he’s upset. After a moment, Percy straightens. “Right. I suppose we better go.”

“Not too late to skip out? We could go to Venice!”

Percy just laughs. “Nice try. Would you mind grabbing my suitcases?” 

Unlike Monty, he only has the two. Monty maneuvers them both to the door while Percy clips on Malory’s service vest.

“Ready to go?” Monty asks, letting Percy choose which suitcase to carry and then grabbing the other for himself.

Percy gives his apartment one last, searching look, then squares his shoulders. “Let’s go.”

* * *

They make the train, but only barely. Percy had given Monty a dirty look for bribing a couple of kids fifty quid to vacate one of the cabins, but hadn’t actually objected, which was as good as approval from him.

They’re only a half-hour into the trip when Percy stands to get snacks, and Monty moves to stare out of the window. 

He hadn’t expected Percy to call it off the second they were alone on the train, but still, he feels the uncomfortable prickling sensation of the unknown on his shoulders. Percy has made no mention of whether he wants to continues his assignation into the school year.

Monty is rather dreading going back to school. 

He can’t stop thinking about the way that the other students will react. He’s only just gotten the paparazzi to stop following him around, now he has to fling himself back into the maw of a beast with 1,000 hungry eyes. All of them following him, waiting for him to fail, waiting to carry messages back to the highest bidder.

It’s possible the metaphor is getting away from him. But the point remains that at school there will be a hundred more ways to screw up, to have an eager classmate looking for their fifteen minutes of fame scramble to catch a picture on Monty in trouble. 

And all of that pales in comparison to his true worry. Percy.

Monty has no idea if this thing, this impossible, wonderful, terrible thing with Percy will last at school. School Percy is always different from Summer Percy. Summer Percy has always been easier to nudge into misbehavior, to tease into smiles and laughter. 

In the two weeks since the Darby’s party, he’s gone over to Percy’s almost every night, or had Percy come over the the Manor. Honestly, shagging Percy is fantastic if only for the convenience factor. No one questioned it when Percy and he stayed in his room for hours, or if Monty didn’t return from Percy’s until late the following day. 

It’s been possibly the best two week of Monty’s life, letting Percy press him down onto the mattress, hearing Percy’s smooth voice go low and commanding, feeling Percy’s hands on his skin.

And school could be the thing to topple it all. Percy clearly wants no one to know about this, and Monty can’t blame him. To say nothing of who Monty is as a person, it would mean Percy getting hounded by the paparazzi as well, being listed among Monty’s sordid conquests instead of as the love of his fucking life.

Luckily, Monty will have plenty of time to contemplate his suffering on the train to St. Andrews. His mother had refused to spare the driver, so Monty will be slumming on the train with everyone else.

He’s brought out of his thoughts when Percy drops a pack of crisps onto his lap. “They were out of vinegar. Sorry.”

Monty picks up the bag. It’s ranch, which is an abomination of a flavor. “Were they also out of nothing? Because I would prefer nothing.”

Percy holds out his hand. “Give it back then.”

Monty clutches the bag close to his chest. “No, it’s mine.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “Alright then.”

“What did you get?”

Percy shows his own bag of biscuits. 

“You filthy cheat!” Monty lunches across the seats to make a grab for the biscuits, but Percy is taller holds them over Monty’s head with very little trouble.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want some?” Percy asks, a grin lurking on the corners of his mouth.

“You’re the worst,” Monty says, and makes another lunge for them.

He ends up leaning too much of his weight onto Percy and them both fall back onto the seat, Monty half-sprawled on Percy, Percy still holding the biscuits up above his head. 

Monty, still intent on getting proper food and not the dodgy crisps that Percy had grabbed him, tries to get more purchase on the bench, reaching up to Percy’s hand, still holding the bag above both their heads.

He makes the mistake of looking down. He’s half-climbed into Percy’s lap, practically backing him into the corner, their faces are level. 

“Hi,” Monty says, all humor leaving him in rush. 

“Hey,” Percy replies, and his eyes unmistakably drop to Monty’s mouth. Monty wobbles and almost falls off the bench, precariously balanced as he is, and Percy steadies him with a hand around his waist. 

Monty leans down, feeling Percy’s breath on his mouth, the shared breath between them. For a moment, the world feels sunlit and wonderful. It’s the most public place they’ve done this, even if it is a private compartment, and if Percy plans to call this off because of returning to school, now is going to be the time. 

Then Percy leans back, ever so slightly. His lips out of reach, and the crash of reality descends on Monty once. Percy’s breath is slightly labored, his cheeks flushed. With an effort, Monty pulls himself away. ‘No kissing,’ he reminds himself, pressing the thought into his mind like a lash, takes a moment to admire Percy, then snatches the biscuits out of his hand, launching himself back into his own seat.

“Victory is mine!” he crows, opening up the bag and stuffing one into his mouth. Percy blinks at him for a moment. 

“You brat!” He laughs, pushing himself up on the bench. “I would have shared.” He crosses his arm, pouting. It’s a more charming sight than he probably realizes. Percy is utterly ignorant to his own devastating attractiveness. 

“Too late,” Monty says, refusing to be swayed. “They’re mine now.” He tosses the bag of crisps back at Percy. “You can have these.”

Percy tries to hold his glare, but he breaks when the crisps hit him in the shoulder, and he starts to laugh. “You’re so utterly spoiled, Monty Montague.”

Monty can’t help but smile. Percy almost never calls him Henry, even when teasing. Even when it would roll off the tongue easier than Monty Montague. 

“Oh, damn your face,” Monty says, and moves himself over to sit next to Percy. 

“Who, me?” Percy asks, and the worst part he probably isn’t teasing. He truly has no idea about the effect he has on people. On Monty.

“Oh, shut up.” Monty shoves the packet of biscuits into Percy’s face. Percy reaches in and takes out a biscuit.

“Cheers.” Percy holds his biscuit up and Monty taps his own against it. He leans into Percy’s side as they polish off the biscuits together, just enjoying the sharing of space.

“Can you believe that we graduate this year?” Percy asks.

“Maybe,” Monty mutters darkly, thinking of his father’s warnings.

“Oh, your marks aren’t that bad.”

Monty shoves Percy with his shoulder. “My marks are fantastic.” Mostly. “It’s whether I can make it through without getting expelled or disowned that’s in question.”

“You’ve managed for twenty years so far,” Percy says cheerily. 

Monty just sighs, turning his head into the meat of Percy’s shoulder. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Percy leans back enough to look into Monty’s face. 

“Nothing.” God, he’s being ridiculous. “It’s stupid.”

Percy catches Monty’s chin and tilts his face up. “Obviously not. Did your father say something?”

Monty shrugs. “The usual. Fire, brimstone, shame of the family.”

“You’re not.” 

“I know.” Monty tugs himself free, not wanting to look at Percy’s eyes any longer. 

Percy catches his chin again. “I mean it, Monty. You’re brilliant.”

God, Monty just wants to stop talking. He doesn’t want to listen to Percy tell him such beautiful lies, not when he can’t even properly have him. He grins, and this time he disguises pulling away as a toss of his hair. “Of course.”

Percy searches Monty’s face and says, low and fervent, “Your father is an asshole, and I would kill him myself if I could.”

Monty fans himself. “Goodness Percy, if you’re going to talk dirty to me, at least be prepared to put out.” What is he saying. 

Something in Percy’s gaze sharpens. “Yeah?”

Monty tilts his chin up in defiance. He has no idea how he’s gotten himself into this or where this is going. But he’s pretty sure he likes it. “Yeah.”

Percy’s lips unfurl into a smirk, slow and hot as hearthfire. “Get on your knees.”

Oh, yes. Monty very much likes where this is headed. 

  
  


* * *

St. Andrews looks exactly as it has looked for the past three years and, doubtless, like it had looked for the past three hundred years before that. Which is to say, lovely, old, and still somehow vaguely disapproving of Monty and his entire presence. 

Monty and Percy both have singles. Percy on account of his specific circumstances, and Monty because his father had given St. Andrews a considerable amount of money to ensure that Monty wouldn’t be able to sleep with a potential roommate. It’s hurtful, really. Justified, but hurtful. 

“Different buildings again,” Monty laments, pushing his own door open. They’d agreed to drop their bags in Monty’s room and going to scout out Percy’s accommodations without the burden of their luggage. 

“Do you suppose they’re doing it on purpose?”

“Oh, like a conspiracy?” Monty drops down onto the bed and wrinkles his nose and at the synthetic feeling of the mattress. He gets back up again quickly—who knows what’s been done on it.

“More like trying to separate two known troublemakers,” Percy says. He pulls back the desk chair and sits on it backwards like a proper scoundrel. It’s an excellent look on him and Monty is momentarily distracted by the spread of his legs. 

“Troublemaker? Moi?” He tries to look offended, but gives it up as a bad job when Percy just gives him a Look. “Surely just the one troublemaker. And accomplice.”

Percy looks mortally offended. “Accomplice? How dare you, sir. I am no man’s accomplice.”

Monty sits on the desk, simply because there are no other safe surfaces in the room. “My apologies. Do you prefer sidekick?”

Percy gasps. “I have never been so offended in my life.”

“Henchman? Minion? Valet?”

“You’re heading into dangerous territory very quickly.”

Monty eyes the spread of Percy’s legs. “I certainly hope so.”

To his disappointment, Percy just rolls his eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Oh, how do you feel about vassal? It’s got a medieval feel to it. Like when we used to play King Arthur and Sir Percival.”

“Sir Percival wasn’t his vassal, he was a trusted knight!”

“He was also a pure virgin, so I’m not sure how well the narrative tracks here, Percy.”

Percy comes to his feet in one fluid motion. “How about co-conspirator.” He keeps moving forward. “Collaborator.” He boxes Monty in on the desk, one arm on either side of Monty’s hips. “Confederate.”

“That’s got a bit of an American feel to it now, doesn’t it?” Monty asks weakly. They’ve had sex over a dozen times now, how can Percy being so in his space still make him so utterly weak. 

“What about partner?” Percy asks, and their lips are almost touching. 

“In crime?” Monty asks, because Percy has made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want to be Monty’s partner in any other sense, and Percy stops, their lips a hair’s breadth apart. 

Then Percy makes a soft chuffing noise, almost a laugh. “Yeah, Monty. In crime.” God, Monty can feel Percy’s lips move as he speaks. What is Percy saying? He leans in for the kiss and—

He almost falls forward when Percy pull back suddenly. “Sorry,” Percy says, grinning. “One shouldn’t kiss one’s vassals. Terrible etiquette. Opens one up to ye olde sexual harassment suits.”

“You’re terrible.” Monty fusses with his hair. It’s flawless, obviously, but he needs something to do with his hands so that he won’t grab Percy by his lapels and pull him back in. “Fine, we can be partners.” Can Percy hear the longing in his voice? “In crime,” he adds hastily. 

“Hmmmmm,” Percy draws it out. “I don’t know. You seemed pretty insistent.”

Monty rolls his eyes spectacularly. “Percy, please be my co-conspirator, collaborator, my non-American confederate.”

“You don’t sound very sincere.”

Monty slides off the desk and gets down on one knee. The second his knee touches the ground, he knows that this is too far. Not for Percy, who will think this is all a tremendous joke, but to his own heart. Can’t he ever just let things go?

But no, Monty is nothing if not committed to his terrible ideas. He reaches out and takes Percy’s hand, watching as Percy’s eyes go wide.

“Percy, not really short for Percival, Newton, will you do me the very great honor,” god, is he actually getting nervous over this? What is wrong with him? “Of being my partner in crime.”

For a moment, Percy stares at him. He stares at Percy. He’s pretty sure that his fingers are trembling. Then Percy uses their joined hands to pull him up into a hug. It’s unexpected so Monty mostly ends up with a face full of Percy’s shirt. “Yes,” Percy says in a high-pitched falsetto. “A thousand times yes.”

Monty doesn’t think it’s necessary for him to sound quite so sarcastic. As if Monty isn’t already dreadfully aware of what Percy does and does not want from this. 

“Do I get a kiss now?” he asks, trying for joking and probably missing by a mile. 

“Nope,” Percy pops the P and lets go of Monty, spinning towards the door. “Come on, let’s go check out my humble abode.”

“Humble is right,” Monty mutters. He does it under his breath though, because he’s somehow managed to avoid the reputation of utter snob (probably because it was being eclipsed by his other reputations) and he’d rather not start the year off on that note.

“Oh, come on,” Percy says. “If our Prince can survive his uni years here, you certainly can.”

Monty, who has met the royal family far more often than Percy has, makes a face at that but doesn’t argue. 

* * *

Monty throws open the door to Percy’s room dramatically. The effect is somewhat ruined by the fact that he’d had to fumble with the key for a bit so Percy would have heard and known he was coming, but the overall result is still impressive. 

“You are looking at the STAR host from hours 9pm to midnight on Friday evenings!” He exclaims. Percy looks up from his textbook. 

“Oh, hello Monty. How lovely to see you too.”

Monty drops down onto the bed, carefully avoiding Malory. “Yes, alright. Hello, Percy. How is your day going?”

“Quite well, and yourself?”

Monty beams at him. “Bloody fantastic!” 

Percy smiles at him. “Your own show this year?”

“Yep!” He bounces on the bed a bit in sheer delight. “I mean, I technically had my own show last year but it was only on Tuesday at 2am so I only got calls from stoners.’

“What about kids pulling an all-nighter?”

“Usually awake, not usually listening to the college radio station.”

“Fair point. Do you have a theme this year?”

Monty drops back down onto the bed, letting his hand fall so that he can scratch Malory’s ears. “Play good music?”

“That would be a no, then.”

“The theme is that it is hosted by Monty Montague. And it’s during real hours! Real people will actually get to listen and call in.”

“I bet.”

“They will!” Monty protests.

Percy grins at him, a dislodged curl falling in his eyes. It’s distractingly charming picture. “In all seriousness, Monty, that is really great. I’m really happy that you’re getting a show.”

“You’ll listen?”

“I guess. If I’m not doing anything else.”

“You’re not. You’re a sad, lonely person with no social life.”

Percy gasps. “How dare you.”

“It’s alright.” Monty stretches out to pat Percy on the arm. “I am also a sad, lonely person with no social life. It’s our lot in life. I have come to accept it.”

Percy pat’s Monty’s hand. “At least we have each other.”

Monty feels his reply behind his teeth, sweet and bitter. He stops himself from reaching out and tucking Percy’s curl behind an ear. “We do, at that.” 

* * *

The first show that Monty does goes amazingly. It’s still early in the semester, with freshman only just discovering that the campus radio station exists and upperclassman having better things to do without tuning in to local stations, so Monty only gets a few calls. He spends the three hour block putting on songs that he likes, answering requests, fielding at least two calls from new kids asking about campus life. 

He likes those questions. He knows the answers. He likes the feeling of helping them, of knowing that they needed something that he was somehow, miraculously, able to provide.

He get a text sometime around 11:30 from Percy, ‘You sound great! I’m turning in but wanted to let you know I’ve been listening.’

Monty smiles down at his phone for such a time that he almost misses putting on the next song. 

He never expected to like working at the campus radio station. It was mostly something he did because it was a way to spend his time that wouldn’t get him expelled but was also likely to infuriate his father. It’s a plan further improved by the knowledge that his father will never find out about it. 

He signs off at midnight, passing the show onto a junior who looks just as pleased to have a show as Monty feels, even with the inferior time slot.

He checks his texts from Percy and, upon seeing nothing new, goes to sleep. He feels, for once, at peace. 

* * *

The worst part of being at St. Andrews is that Monty doesn’t actually hate being at St. Andrews. It’s nothing at all like Eton, full of boys like Monty or boys who were destined to grow up just like Monty’s father and nothing in between.

St. Andrews is a strange melting pot of talent, people and money. It’s not quite posh enough for the sort like his father and it’s a bit too academic for the sorts like Monty, and somewhere in the middle of that blend Monty has found somewhere he can be comfortable. 

The other worst part is that Monty, sort of, a little, just a smidge mind you, actually enjoys his classes. The homework is dreadful and the sheer amount of it makes him cry a bit and his actual course of study was his father’s choice and therefore to be despised at all costs but…

Well. He still likes it. He can’t imagine himself as a lawyer, standing up and trying to get guilty people out of jail or innocent people into jail. He can sort of picture himself yelling “I object!” like on the American films, but that’s just for fun. 

And he can see himself as a politician even less. The past ten generations of Montagues have served on the House of Lords and Henry Montague III does not intend to let the tradition end with him but. Well. The peerage would have to become very accepting of a lot of things very quickly before that dream ever becomes a reality. And that’s even if Monty manages to not get disowned before his father strong-arms him into law school.

“Would I have to change my name if I got disowned?” 

“Hm?” Percy looks up from his books. “What?”

Monty flops over onto his back, resting his head on the stupidly heavy textbook under him. “I’m Monty-short-for-Montague. If I’m no longer a Montague, would I still be able to be Monty?”

“I mean, you can call yourself whatever you want,” Percy says. “Do you want to be a Montague?”

Monty considers. “Well, I wouldn’t want to stop being Monty.”

Percy watches him. “Do you… do you think that disownment is a possibility?”

“Anything is possible, Percy,” Monty says, flinging his arms wide. He knocks one of the book off the bed and swears. 

“Has,” Monty can almost hear the unspoken space in the pause where his father should be, “anyone mentioned disownment to you?”

“Oh, all the time.” And then, at Percy’s look, “Not recently, no. Not since we got back to St. Andrews.”

“You’ve been pretty quiet.”

“Ugh. Don’t say that. It makes me feel like I should go set the bell tower on fire, just in protest.”

“Please don’t do that.”

Monty rolls his eyes. “Of course not. It’s stone. What would even burn?”

“You, probably.”

“Yeah,” Monty sighs. “You’re probably right.”

They are two weeks into the term already and Percy is right. Monty has mostly managed to keep his nose out of trouble. Mostly because spending time with Percy is infinitely more enjoyable. Maybe that’s Percy’s game, keep Monty too distracted to make mischief. If it is, Monty isn’t even sure that he cares. Percy had mentioned, after a pretty fantastic evening that involved Monty’s bed frame and some of Percy’s more horrid ties, that he was glad that this was helping Monty stay out of trouble.

It had rather killed the buzz for Monty, but Percy hadn’t even seemed to notice.

“What would your name even be, if you changed it?” 

“I dunno.” Monty tilts his head back over the side of the bed, looking at Percy upside down. The stupid bastard is even attractive like this. What an asshole. “What about Newton.”

Upside down, Monty can’t tell what Percy’s face does, but the silence isn’t promising. Malory takes advantage of his proximity to the floor to lick his face. He pushes her away gently and sits upright. Percy still hasn’t even said anything. 

Monty forces a laugh. “But then again, Monty Newton sounds,” perfect, “ridiculous! God, could you image?”

Monty can. He can imagine it clearly, can imagine spending the rest of his fucking life with Percy and his smiles and his dog and his apparent utter inability to say a word when Monty desperately needs him to. 

“Well, Percy Montague sounds just as bad,” Percy says after a moment. Monty thinks that it sounds fantastic, and it makes something hot and possessive flare up inside himself. He’s not a particularly jealous person by nature. He has many vices, and he is well aware of them, but jealousy is rarely one of them. He couldn’t care less what his partners get up to. 

But he has always coveted Percy’s time, Percy’s presence. The idea of Percy taking his name, of being so publicly and visibly his is—well. It’s something. 

“You’d never be a Montague,” Monty says, stretching. He knows how true it is, and not just because any reality in which Percy has a reason to take his name is a far distant one. No, Percy will never be a Montague because Percy is proud of being a Newton. He is proud of his family, of where he comes from. He keeps his father’s violin close and has grown up on the books his father wrote. He cherishes the Newton name. 

And Monty has never been anything but a disgrace to the Montague name. He isn’t ashamed of who he is, but given a choice between him taking Percy’s name and Percy taking his, it’s no contest. Monty would be Monty Newton without a moment’s hesitation.

Which is an utterly absurd line of thought because this will never be a reality that Monty gets to live in.

Percy laughs, and it sounds strained. “Yeah, of course. I was just—” 

“Joking, yeah. I know.” Monty is painfully aware. 

He glances down to his textbook in desperation. “Did you understand the bit about the employment tribunals?”

God, Percy isn’t even in that class with him. 

“Uh,” Percy looks down at his book, then pushes it to the side, “yeah, we covered that last week in mine. Budge over and tell me which part is confusing.”

Monty budges over, not quite enough and lets Percy press against him and explain stupid laws that Monty doubts he will ever be in a position to care about. 

* * *

One of the nice things about St. Andrews is that there is no shortage of local pubs. Not as many clubs as Monty is used to, but until this year he never had a problem with picking up fellow classmates when he wanted to get off. 

At least, that had never been a problem in the past. 

“What do you think about hitting up The Central for a pint?” he asks Percy on Saturday.

Percy gives him a considering look. “Yeah, alright.”

“What, really?”

Percy rolls his eyes. “Don’t look so shocked. It wasn’t just you throwing up after the Van Hoight’s party last year.”

“That was last year. 2016 Percy was a party animal. 2017 Percy has been a stick in the mud who hates on clubs.”

“Yeah, because every time you came back from the clubs this summer you looked like you wanted to throw yourself in the Thames. Forgive me for not jumping at the chance.”

Monty clears his throat. Percy absently straightens his pillow. 

“You know,” Monty says, “we haven’t done a proper pub crawl in—”

“Don’t push it.”

Monty raises his hands in silent surrender. 

* * *

The Central is crowded, which is no surprise for a college town on a Saturday night. The townies tend to steer clear on the weekend, retreating to more deeply local places or driving to a neighboring town since few of the students had cars at their disposal. 

Going to a pub is nothing like going to a club. However, there are some crucial similarities, and Monty makes a beeline for the most important one. He orders three drinks, two for him and one for Percy. Percy gives him a dirty look when he passes one off, but Monty ignores him.

The pub is too crowded for proper conversation, but he and Percy gamely give it a try a bit before Monty wanders off to try his hand at a game of billiards. He’s dreadful. He is, in fact, so dreadful that his opponents spend the first two matches convinced that he’s a mark before they realize that he really is this bad at it. 

He ends up losing a good thirty quid to them before Percy takes his elbow and pulls him away.

“I was getting better!” he protests. 

“You emphatically were not,” Percy assures him. His voice is fond and amused, and his face has gone soft in the way that he always gets when he has a few drinks and Monty is just so abruptly fond of him that he has to kiss him, right here in the bar. 

Percy dodges away from him when Monty leans in, and Monty reels back like he’s been struck.

“Right.” He swallows. “The Julia Roberts thing.”

“No,” Percy hisses at him, looking surprisingly angry. “This is the not in public thing.”

“Is that a rule?” Monty asks, searching his memory for when Percy had made that stipulation.

“No, you arsehole, it’s because I don’t want to see my face in the paper as one of your latest conquests.”

“You’d be in good company,” Monty replies. He goes takes another sip of his drink and discovers that it’s empty. He looks back to the bar. 

“Nope,” Percy says, and grabs Monty’s arm. “You’re cut off.”

“Boo. Spoilsport.”

Percy is tugging him to the door, and Monty lets himself be tugged because he would follow Percy anywhere. 

He lets Percy tug him all the way back to the dorms, all the way back to Percy’s room, lets Percy press him up against the door to Percy’s room. 

“Have you always been such a tease?” Percy asks.

Monty can’t kiss him so he presses his lips just below Percy’s ear, as if he could make hear Percy hear everything he can’t make himself say. 

“I’m sorry I almost got us caught,” he says, pressing the words into Percy’s skin because he can't say I love you, I want you. 

Percy pulls back. The handle of the door digs into Monty’s spine, but he doesn’t move. Percy has put him here, and Percy hasn’t said that he can move.

“That wasn’t—” Percy breathes out in a sharp breath. Monty is well familiar with an exasperated sigh aimed at him. “I just don’t want to be in the papers, that’s all.”

“Well, that makes two of us,” Monty replies. His fingers ache with the urge to pull Percy closer. 

Percy leans in, and Monty forgets himself for a moment, thinks that Percy might be going for a kiss. He tilts his head up in invitation. 

Percy reaches past him and locks the door. “I know, Monty. No one is going to know about this.”

Monty tries not to flinch back from that. He wants to tell the world, wants to scream from the rooftops. Percy Newton is fucking him. Percy Newton has deemed him worthy of touch. But Percy’s wants differ from his, and Monty can’t even blame him. 

“I know,” Monty promises. “I’ll make sure of it.” He’ll keep Percy’s name out of this narrative. Whatever it takes. 

Percy just looks at him, holds his eyes for a long moment. From anyone else, Monty might expect a kiss. 

“You know what we haven’t tried?” Percy asks, and his tone is speculative. 

Monty bites his lips around a dozen answers. There are so many things that they haven’t tried, so many things Monty wants to try. 

“What?”

“I haven’t gotten to suck you off yet,” Percy says, and his voice is oh-so-carefully neutral. 

Monty can’t help the noise the pulls itself from his throat, desperate and needy and tied to the sudden mental image of how Percy would look with Monty’s cock in his mouth. 

Percy smiles, filthy and pleased. “You can’t move, okay? That’s the rule this time. Green?”

He’s started to say green instead of okay every time that they do this, and Monty finds it absurdly charming. 

“Green. Grass Green. 500 miles an hour green. Am I allowed to talk?”

Percy leans forward, and this time Monty remembers not to tilt his face up into the motion. Percy’s breath whispers against his ear when he says “You are encouraged to talk.”

Monty’s mouth goes dry as Percy sinks to his knees. “You, ah, you’re probably going to regret saying that.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Percy says wickedly, unbuttoning Monty’s trousers. Monty is already hard, has been since Percy pulled him from the club. Percy tugs down his trousers and pants in one smooth motion and falters. “I haven’t done this before.”

“I don’t give one goddamn,” Monty lies, as though that isn’t the single hottest thing he’s ever heard. That he will be the only one in the world who knows what Percy’s mouth feels like. 

Percy makes a face at that, like he doesn’t believe him, like something Monty has said is wrong somehow, but the expression is gone before Monty can comment on it.

“No moving,” Percy reminds him, and leans forward and puts his mouth on Monty. Monty has, generously, had dozens of blowjobs. None of them are like this. It’s like fire in his veins, like a shot of pure adrenaline. His hands curl into the door, but his hips are still. His arms don’t stretch out to pull Percy closer. He has the brief, insane urge to forsake every one of Percy’s orders and rules and to pull Percy up and put his mouth somewhere else.

Then Percy opens his mouth and takes Monty inside him and all thought dissolves into incoherent noise and the words spill from Monty unheeded.

  
  


* * *

“Hello, Sinjon, you’re looking lovely as always,” Monty says to the station manager as he drops his bag down. Sinjon has worked at the radio for even longer than Monty has, and has somehow managed to swing a show twice a week, taking the time slot before Monty’s on Fridays as well as a Sunday session.

He is blond haired and blue eyed and lovely and entirely the reason Monty had joined the radio station in the first place, before he discovered that he was good at it, that he liked it. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Sinjon replies, flashing Monty a warm smile. He is just as lovely as he was when Monty first saw him three years ago, but the sight of that smile does nothing for him anymore. 

Still, no harm in being friendly. 

“That’s certainly what I’m hoping for,” he says with a wink, and is rewarded with a laugh. 

“I’ve heard of men like you, Montague,” Sinjon replies. “You’ll leave a boy heartbroken in the morning.”

Monty highly doubts that. As if anyone has been in it for more than a quick roll in the sheets. 

“But it’s oh-so-worth it.” 

Sinjon comes around to Monty’s side of the booth and puts the large headphones over Monty’s ears. “You have a job to do.”

“Alas, business before pleasure.” Monty takes his seat at the mixing board. Back in his first year, the dials and levels had been all but incomprehensible to him. Now, they’re comfortable, familiar. 

In the time honored tradition of students who have no general manager to watch them, Sinjon counts him down before he leaves. Three, Two, One, Live. 

“Hello, St. Andrews. This is Monty Montague coming to you live from your local STAR station. I’ll be your host for the next three hours, so feel free to call in with some requests, or even if you just want to chat.” While he talks, he cues up the first song. “While you’re trying to decide what to say, I’m going to start you off with a modern classic.”

The song he puts on is actually one of Percy’s favorite, he always starts his set with it. Back in his second year, he’d had an hour long show at 3 in the morning, and Percy had been the only one to call in the entire time. He’d requested this song. 

Sinjon rolls his eyes at Monty through the glass as he heads out and Monty makes a face at him in response. He doesn’t know why Monty always plays this song, and Monty has never told him. 

The hour is quiet. Monty puts on songs he likes and every five songs he editorializes, giving basic updates on campus life. He gets a single call, asking where the best place to get food now that the mess has closed is. He points them to the nearest pub with better chips than beer.

Another five songs tick by, and his board lights up, indicating that he has a call. Monty lets the song play though, and says “It looks like we have another call. Monty’s tourism center— How can I help?”

“Yeah, hi? This is Monty Montague right? Like Henry Montague.”

Monty has a well-tuned sense of when things are about to go terribly wrong. “God, don’t call me that. Only my father calls me that.”

“Yeah, I just wanted to say I’m a big fan. Your sex tape was A+, man.”

The caller hangs up before Monty can formulate a reply. He just stares at the board for a second, in lieu of actual phone to look at. It’s the red light that catches his attention—his mike is still hot.

“Always good to hear from a fan,” he laughs, and even to his own ears it sounds fake. He switches over to the next song quickly.

It’s hardly five minutes before the next call.

“You’re on the air,” Monty greets. 

The caller is clearly already way past drunk. “Shit, man, I didn’t know you were like, the same Montague. I jacked—” Monty slams the off button before the guy can continue. 

“Whoops. It seems that we got disconnected. Perhaps for the best. Friendly reminder that this a college station and we do our best to keep the racier discussion off the airways.”

The phone keeps ringing. He can’t not answer it, it’s part of the stupid radio contract that the college radio was for everyone and that it had to be accessible. 

“I have a request,” A girl begins another hour later, and Monty tries not to breath out with relief. 

“Anything,” he says.

“What was that song playing in the background of your sex tape? It was classy, but still sexy, you know?”

“Ah, yes.” Monty replies, keeping his voice level. “I know just the song.”

He hangs up. He puts on the song ‘Fuck You.’ 

It only makes him feel a bit better.

By the end of his session, he feels worn thin and tired, betrayed by one of the things that he truly loved. One of the things that his family name had never managed to ruin. He signs off without his usual gusto and hopes no one notices. 

When he looks up, he starts to see Sonia waiting outside the glass. Her show is after his, but he’d forgotten to expect her. He gestures her in.

“Chin up, Montague,” she says gently. “Don’t let the muggles get you down.”

“Easy for you to say,” he replies tartly. 

She only gives him a stern look, the kind that might remind him of his mother, were his mother the type to give stern looks. “I swear to God, Monty, if you aren’t here next week, if you quit over this, I’ll fucking stalk you.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” he replies, but his heart isn’t in it and they both know it. 

He counts her down and heads off to his own dorm, feeling much too tired for only midnight on a Friday. 

When Monty swings open his door, he stops dead at the sight of Percy on his bed. 

“Hey,” Percy says, voice soft.

Monty blinks at him. “Um. Hi.”

Percy doesn’t say anything, just pats the bed next to him. Monty drops his bag down at the door and staggers over to him. 

“You were listening?”

“Yeah,” Percy reaches out like he wants to touch Monty, but pulls back. The politics of how they offered one another comfort never used to be so complicated. In that instant, Monty would trade all the sex in the world just to be able to lay his head on Percy’s shoulder and soak up his presence. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m only surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

People on campus have been mostly decent. People give him sidelong looks, they snigger behind their hands. He’d caught one freshman trying to discreetly take a photo on her phone. But hardly anyone has said anything to his face.

Percy doesn’t say anything to that, and he knows in that instant that Percy has heard things, things that Monty hasn’t. Things that Percy won’t tell him. 

He pushes himself back until his back is against the wall, his feet stretched out in front of him. Percy turns with him, pulls his feet under him to sit crosslegged. 

“What do you want?” Percy asks.

Monty shakes his head, and keeps shaking it. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. And this isn’t like the last time. He doesn’t feel unmoored and distant. He’s just tired, and somehow, even with Percy right here, bone-achingly lonely. 

Percy studies him for a moment. “Okay,” he says, like Monty had managed to make words instead of failing, again, failing as always, to articulate anything worthwhile. “Do you want to…” he trails off, and Monty feels his mouth twitch up in spite of himself. 

“Not really.”

Percy mocks a gasp. “Who are you, and what have you done with Monty?”

It’s a joke. Monty knows that it’s a joke. Percy has made comments like this before, and Monty has never cared. But after the past three hours…

“I don’t always want sex,” he snaps. “I’m not some nymphomaniac, Percy.”

Percy flinches back, and Monty hates himself.

“No, don’t—” he starts.

“I shouldn’t joke,” Percy says. “I know you’re not.”

Monty laughs, and it hurts his throat on the way out. “Well, at least that’s one person in the UK.”

“Three, at least,” Percy says.

“Three?” 

Percy ticks it off on his fingers. “You, me, and Felicity.”

“Nope,” Monty pops the P.

“No?”

“Felicity definitely thinks I’m a slut.”

Percy frowns at him. “I don’t think that’s—”

“She said so. In those words.”

“I—Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Percy just sits there. Then, abruptly, he reaches out and doesn’t stop this time. He puts one arm around Monty’s shoulder and pulls until Monty’s head lands in his lap.

“Percy, if you’re angling for a blowjob, you’ve got a shit sense of timing,” Monty says, muffled by the fabric of Percy’s trousers. 

“Just shut up, Monty.” Percy tangles his fingers through Monty’s curls.

Monty tucks his legs up and turns his head to be more comfortable, just letting Percy touch him.

Then, after a moment. “But seriously, if you do want a—”

Percy tugs on his hair, which works rather more than Monty had thought it would, and Monty falls quiet.

“Seriously, Monty,” Percy says, but his voice is soft. “Just shut up, okay?”

Monty turns his head into Percy’s leg and closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”

* * *

The other terrible thing about St. Andrews is how much it takes Percy away from him. Oh, not that Monty would ever say anything to Percy, but despite all appearances, Percy is actually more social than Monty is. Monty has his pub nights, and he never has a shortage of sexual partners when he wants them, but Percy is the one with social clubs and friends and actual things to do after class. Monty has Percy. 

Tonight, Percy has time with one of his music groups, and Monty would never, ever take that from him. Percy loves music, loves the music classes he takes for his minor, loves the practice rooms that he rents out for an hour every Tuesday and Thursday. And he loves getting together with other music nerds every Monday and Saturday to do what Monty calls band practice and Percy calls orchestral arrangement studies. 

Which leaves Monty with four days out of the week where he has nothing to do but stare up at his ceiling, do his homework, or go out. It had never been a problem any of his other years here, but Monty is less and less inclined to go to the pub and get drunk and pick up strangers.

Part of that is the Tape. Part of that is the feel of Percy’s fingers on his skin. 

His phone chimes, and he glances at it. It’s Percy.

‘Thoughts?’ Reads the preview on his phone. He swipes to open the message and practically feels his heart pound out of his chest.

There, in lovely color, is a picture of a man, elegantly tied up in scarlet ropes, each one caressing his arms, tracing up and down over the skin. It’s not just bondage, not the simple handcuffs and headboard activities that Monty has tried before, it’s something elevated, something elegant. Something perfect for Percy, who has been taking every simple thing in Monty’s life and making it better since Monty first met.

Monty goes from zero to aroused in three seconds flat. He can feel his breath catching in his throat, his blood running hot through his veins. He types out ‘Yes. Please yes.’ And throws his phone onto the bed beside him, already undoing his trousers.

Does Percy want to tie him up, like that? They’ve done a few things with Percy’s ties, but it was the most casual form of bondage imaginable. This thing they’ve built between them is entirely built on the foundation that Monty needs to be— That he wants to be—

Anyway, it’s not been built on an equal exchange of power. And sometimes, Monty wants to turn around and say, we don’t have to do this every time. He loves it, but it’s not all that he wants. He wants to be Percy’s partner in true. He loves it when Percy pins him down and gives him orders but Monty would also love to fuck Percy in turn, to have some time that isn’t all about what Monty needs, and he doesn’t know how to say it without ruining everything they have.

His phone chimes again, drawing him out of his spiral. It’s Percy again.

‘You’d look so beautiful, tied up like this.’

And just like that, Monty is back. 

He can imagine Percy’s hands, tracing lines up his arms, guiding them up to grip the headboard, the way Percy would shape the words, ‘Stay there.’

He can’t stop looking at the photo, at the crisscross of lines and skin. It looks like it took a lot of care. Whoever tied those knots spent a long time handling the man in the picture, touching him, adjusting the rope, posing his limbs. It would be a strange, new kind of intimacy, but there’s so much trust evident in the photo. 

He’s gasping at the thought of it, of how it would feel to have Percy lay the rope against his skin. Monty imagines them as silk, scarlet against his pale skin, against the darker hues of Percy’s hands as Percy guides them across Monty’s body.

Monty slides a hand inside his pants and strokes himself, imagining Percy crisscrossing the bindings down his arms, holding him in place. Would Percy, fuck, would Percy want to tie his legs as well? Monty spreads his legs wider at the thought, imagines himself spread-eagled for Percy’s gaze.

You look so beautiful, Percy says in his mind. Tied up like this. All mine. He can almost hear Percy’s voice in his ear, dark and possessive in a way Percy never gets with him. You’re mine, Monty.

Monty comes, saying, “Yours, all yours.”

For a moment, he just lies there, breathing heavily, feeling the phantom feeling of ropes on him fade away. Then he stands and cleans himself up. When he comes back, he checks his phone. Nothing new.

Still, he feels good. Bold. Desired. Percy is at band practice, and he’s thinking about Monty. Thinking about wanting to tie Monty up. God, that’s hot.

Feeling daring, Monty logs into one of the sites that some of the people from the Club had introduced him to and orders eight yards of silk scarlet rope. He pictures the look on Percy’s face; surprise, amusement, lust. The thought burns through him like fire, like the sun. 

* * *

Wednesdays, Percy belongs to Monty. Or, rather, he doesn’t belong to anyone else. There is no music session or band practice to claim his time. However, it’s still a school day and they’re both seniors. Percy is aiming to get into law school after this. Monty has no idea what he wants, but he does know that he needs to graduate with high marks, if only to prove that his father is wrong when he says Monty will never amount to anything.

So Wednesdays they usually sit about in Percy’s room, working on their homework and talking about the future. Monty has a six page essay on relativistic morals. Percy has a test on Friday. There is absolutely no way that they are having sex tonight. And yet, somehow, Monty is fine with that. He loves, truly, honestly loves sex with Percy, but above all, Percy is his friend. 

He likes just this. The sound of his own keyboard, of Percy turning pages, of Malory quietly snuffling in the corner.

Freshman Monty would be laughing himself sick, imagining that there would ever be a version of him that would be content to sit in a room and do his homework. But then again, even freshman Monty had loved Percy, and he could never be utterly miserable in a room with Percy in it. 

That said, Monty is tired of this essay and classes in general, and when Percy leans back in his chair to stretch, Monty is much more interested in the picture Percy makes, the curve of his spine, the long lines of his arms, the way his toes curl under.

“What?” Percy asks, settling back. “Do I have something?” He wipes at his mouth like he expects to dislodge stray crumbs. 

“No, you’re good,” Monty says. 

“You’re still staring,” Percy replies, amused now. 

“You’re gorgeous.” Monty blurts the words out before he can stop himself. He means it though. And Percy deserves to know, either way.

Percy laughs uncomfortably. “Come off it.”

“I’m serious.” He holds Percy’s eyes, and feels like all his feelings are out on display. Let them. Percy doesn’t seem to understand how breathtakingly lovely he is, and Monty can’t stand to see that insecurity in him. 

Percy pushes a hand through his hair. “I know you are.” 

“Oh.” Monty clears his throat. 

“You would never deign to sleep with anyone who wasn’t.”

For a moment, the words hang between them. Monty has no reply to that, no joking response. It truly, honestly hurts to have it put like that, the idea that Percy thinks so little of him. He’s not sure which part is worst, the implication that Monty is shallow, or the implication that he wouldn’t be with Percy if Percy wasn’t lovely. 

When, in truth, Percy’s looks are one of the last things Monty cares about. What do his looks matter, when Percy is kind and intelligent and one of the truly good things in Monty’s life?

His smile is gorgeous, but that’s nothing to how it lights up the entire room. His eyes are wonderful, but that isn’t why being looked at by Percy makes Monty feel like the center of the universe. 

But he can’t even say that. Percy doesn’t even want to kiss him, he surely doesn’t want Monty dropping compliments at his feet. He won’t want Monty to vomit up all his feelings, all his love and hope and wonder.

Instead, Monty rolls over to stare at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to meet Percy’s eyes. “Yep. That’s me. Exclusively available to the physically flawless.”

Percy laughs.

“I’m just happy that I qualify.”

“More than qualify,” Monty replies, pitching his tone carefully to make it a joke. “Topping the list. Percy Newton, 12/10.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“I got the picture you sent,” Monty says, just wanting to change the subject now. Confessing even pieces of his true feelings and have Percy just laugh it off is more than he can handle at the moment. 

“Yeah, I figured. Considering how you replied and all.”

Monty doesn’t reply, and he can feel Percy’s eyes on him.

“Did you like it?” Percy asks, his voice dropping down a register. Monty represses a shiver. 

“Yeah, I did. I liked it a lot.” He tilts his head back so that he can look at Percy upside down. “Who knew you could be so dirty?”

Upside down, Percy is hard to read, but he can tell that Percy is blushing. He loves it when Percy blushes. “I’ve been using the internet.”

Monty flips over again. “The internet? Percy, you harlot!” 

“Shut up,” Percy mutters. “Did you want to try something new or not?”

“Ooohhhh,” Monty says. “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

“Don’t laugh,” Percy says. “I swear to god, Monty, if you laugh.”

“I won’t laugh!” Monty says, and then, at Percy’s look. “I promise. Not at something like this.”

“Right,” Percy swallows. “So, I have,” he reaches down and pulls something out.

“You know, Percy, I did somehow suspect that you owned neckties,” Monty says. 

Percy gives him a filthy look. “You promised not a laugh.”

“I’m not!” Monty protests. “I’m also not entirely clear about what it is that I’m not laughing at.”

“I thought,” Percy swallows again, and Monty feels hope bubble up in his chest. It’s not the rope that Monty had ordered the other day, but if Percy wants to tie him up, Monty is very much onboard with that. “I mean, it’s not quite a blindfold, but in a pinch...”

The bubble bursts. 

“Oh.” And then, at the look on Percy’s face, “Still not laughing!” He laughs. “Would you believe that I’ve actually never tried that before?”

“No,” Percy says bluntly. Then, “Wait, really? Never?”

Monty shrugs. “It’s never come up.” He’s never been particularly interested in that, even before The Tape. But this is Percy. If he can trust anyone in the world, it’s Percy. The image of it passes through his mind, being blind, tethered to the world only by Percy’s voice, Percy’s touch. Yeah. It’s definitely working for him. “You don’t need to look so shocked, darling. I haven’t done everything.”

There is a multitude of things that he hasn’t done. Things that most people in the Community have expected, and which Monty had said no to immediately. No pain. No impact play. No humiliation. Blindfolds had never been a explicit no, but he had also never sought them out before.

Percy swallows. “So, I would be your,” he hesitates, “your first in this?”

Fire races through Monty’s veins as he goes from mildly interested to ‘oh hell yes’ in about five seconds. He struggles to keep his face calm, to not give away how much he wants that. He has very few regrets about his own sexual history, but he wants to be able to give Percy something. Something even close to what Percy gives him every time they do this. “That sounds about right,” he says, and he’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake. 

“Oh.” How does Percy always sound so calm, so composed, when Monty feels as though he himself is being set ablaze from the inside, like it is only Percy that keeps him centered, keeps him from going to pieces. And here is Percy, sitting at his desk chair like he always does, checking off another box on his best friend list. Make sure Monty doesn’t drink too much, check. Help Monty pass the Maths requirement, check. Have kinky, dominating sex with Monty so he doesn’t fly off the rails. Check. 

“How do you want me?” Monty asks, pitching his voice lower and looking up at Percy from under his eyelashes in a way that he knows works. It’s gratifying to see a flush climb up Percy’s throat, to know that he has some effect on Percy, even just as an effect of his looks. 

Percy’s eyes flash with some emotion that Monty can’t put a name to, but he just says “Get on the bed. Take off your clothes.”

“Yes, sir.” Monty’s voice comes out more flippantly than he would have thought possible. He unbuttons his shirt with quick, methodical movements.

“Stop.” Percy says, and his voice cuts through the air like a whip. “Slower. I want to watch you.”

Oh God. Monty nods shakily, and undoes the rest of the buttons more slowly, letting his fingers linger over the buttonholes. He lets the shirt hang open over his bare chest as he reaches for his trousers, undoes the button there. When he slides the zipper down, slowly, achingly slowly, the sounds seems to ricochet off the walls. Percy’s eyes are following his hands, and Monty can feel the gaze like a physical touch. 

He steps out of his trousers, and wishes that he had worn something more attractive than boxers. He has a pair of pants he always uses on nights he wants to pull, and yet here he in plain blue satin boxers.

Percy doesn’t seem to mind, if the look on his face is any indication. God, Monty could stand here and be looked at like that for the rest of his life and never care. 

“Everything off, Monty,” Percy says, and his voice is slow and careful and demanding. 

Monty steps out of his pants, and stands there for another moment, aware of the picture he makes, his shirt still open over his chest, framing the way that his cock has sprung up. Then, holding Percy’s gaze, he slides the shirt off one shoulder, than the other, and lets it fall to the floor. Percy licks his lips and Monty hears himself make a low, desperate noise.

Without being prompted, he stretches out on the bed, feeling the fabric of Percy’s sheets beneath him, hyper-aware of every inch of his skin. 

“Good,” Percy murmurs, and Monty shudders. The word is like a touch, a caress. 

Percy pushes himself off the chair and stands. He seems to loom over Monty, larger than life. There is something almost unbearably erotic about being naked when Percy is still buttoned up in his shirt and blazer, looking so perfectly put together if not for the outline of his arousal in his trousers, for the wild look in his eyes. 

“Ready?” Percy asks, and Monty nods. The tie settles over his eyes, and he lifts his head obligingly to that Percy can tie it in the back. “Color?”

“Green,” Monty says. 

“Good.” Percy trails his finger down Monty’s neck, down his arm as he pulls back. Monty has always heard that the senses are more heightened when blindfolded, and Percy’s touch reinforces that, striking to the heart of him. 

Then Percy pulls back completely, and it’s just Monty lying there, naked on a bed, blindfolded. He’s pretty sure that Percy is watching him, but he can’t be sure. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, but not necessarily an unpleasant one. He trusts Percy, trusts him utterly. 

“Look at you,” Percy says, and Monty starts when Percy’s fingers curls around his ankle. “You look like a fucking pin-up.” His drags his hand up Monty’s leg, curling around to the inside one he gets past the knee. Then he pulls back before he reaches the apex of Monty’s thighs, and Monty twitches. Percy laughs softly. “God, Monty, you look like you were made for this.”

Monty feels the words settle over him like a light snowfall, and he twitches ever so slightly to dispel the cold that they leave behind, hoping that Percy interprets the motion as one of arousal. 

“What do you want, Monty?” Percy asks, and Monty shoves away his own discomfort, shoves away everything but the way that Percy’s voice curls through the air, the way the blindfold feels against his skin. “Do you want to suck me off?” Percy’s voice is teasing, and Monty gasps. 

“Fuck, yes. Please.” It’ll be a shame to do so without getting to see the way Percy falls apart under his mouth, but in this moment, he doesn’t care. It’s something familiar, something that he knows that he likes. 

“Sit up,” Percy says, and Monty hears him get up. Monty pushes himself into a sitting position, hears fabric rustle behind him, and then Percy pushes him back down with a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

Monty falls back into what feels like three or four additional pillows, propping his head up.

“You think of everything, don’t you?” he asks, feeling himself smile. 

“I try to,” Percy replies, and his voice is more serious. Monty reaches out blindly, and catches the side of Percy’s face mostly by accident. He traces a thumb over Percy’s cheek, over his lips.

Percy pulls away from the touch, and Monty lets his hand fall back to the bed. 

When Percy straddles him, Monty can tell that Percy is still fully clothed, can feel the fabric of Percy’s trousers against the outside of his thighs. When Percy guides his cock into Monty’s mouth, Monty opens his mouth gladly and takes him in. 

“Fuck, Monty,” Percy says as Monty sucks. Percy falls forward, bracing himself against the wall. “You’re so good at this. You were made for this.”

Monty feels himself falter, then picks it up before Percy can notice. He is suddenly aware that his jaw hurts, of the uncomfortable feeling of Percy’s zipper pressed into his chin. Percy is moving, carefully, slowly, but he’s still fucking talking, and Monty wants to shut it out. 

“This is what you were born to do. Fuck, Jesus Christ, Monty. This is what you’re best at.”

His words sound stilted, and Monty is just aware enough to recognize that Percy probably pulled this level of dirty talk off the internet, along with the knowledge of safewords and how to secure a blindfold, that Percy probably doesn’t mean it. He’s saying it for Monty, because he thinks that it’s what Monty wants. 

But each word lands like a blow, sparking humiliation through Monty’s veins. It probably wouldn't be so bad if it weren’t for the blindfold, if he could look at Percy’s sweet, lovely face and distance himself from the cruel words. 

But with the blindfold anchoring him to only sound and touch and taste, he can only hear the way that Percy had said slut the last time they argued. 

He chokes on Percy’s next thrust, and Percy, sweet, careful Percy, stops. “Are you alright?” He slips out of Monty’s mouth. 

“Fine,” Monty lies. Something in his voice must betray him, because Percy sits all the way back so that he can look at Monty’s face. 

“Fuck, Monty,” Percy says, and his voice this time is so different from how he said it last time. He reaches out and cups Monty’s cheeks, and his touch burns. “What’s your color?”

Monty opens his mouth to lie again, and Percy’s fingers tighten, pressing into his cheek, his jaw. Monty closes his eyes behind the blindfold and realizes abruptly that his eyelashes are wet, that the blindfold is wet. The realization forces the truth from his mouth.

“Red.” 

Percy swears again, and he lets go of Monty’s face. Monty makes a low noise of protest, but Percy shushes him. “I’m going to undo the blindfold. Close your eyes.”

Monty does, feels Percy pull him closer so that Monty’s head rests in the cradle of Percy’s shoulder as the knot of the blindfold comes loose. With his face pressed into the fabric of Percy’s shirt, the blindfold doesn’t have room to come free.

Carefully, Percy guides him and and the blindfold falls between them. 

“Oh, Monty,” Percy says. “I’m so sorry. What was it? What’s wrong?”

Monty shakes his head, and keeps shaking it, his eyes still tight closed. He is horribly aware that he is naked and Percy is not, and the fact that had been arousing just recently is now humiliating. 

Percy makes another low sound, but Monty doesn’t open his eyes to interpret it. Then Percy swings himself off the bed, off of Monty, and Monty feels sick to his stomach. This is it, Percy is done. He’s leaving. Fuck, Monty should have just kept going. He’s had bad sex before, he could have handled it. 

Then he feels the weight of a blanket settle over him, and his eyes fly open in surprise. 

“Do you want some tea?” Percy asks, hesitant.

Monty shakes his head, unable to speak past the knot in his throat.

“Do you want me to stay?” 

This time, Monty hesitates, because he’s not sure how his reply will be interpreted. But in the end, he wants Percy to stay so badly that his body aches with it, and he’s too selfish to pretend otherwise. “Yes. Please.”

Percy nods, and Monty moves over on the bed so that Percy has room beside him. 

“You did so good,” Percy says as he stretches out beside Monty. He’s not touching him, but Monty isn’t surprised by that. 

Monty makes a disbelieving noise. 

“No, you did. I’m proud of you for telling me to stop.” Sort of. “You did really good.”

Monty closes his eyes against Percy’s pretty lies, and carefully doesn’t move, doesn't push himself back into Percy’s body, into Percy’s arms. 

He falls asleep like that, feeling stretched and tired and desperately alone, while Percy says all the right things except the one thing that Monty wants to hear. 

* * *

Monty wakes up to the familiar sound of Percy playing the violin and the even more familiar sensation of Malory licking his face. He turns his face into the pillow and she licks his ear instead. 

The music falters, but doesn’t stop. Monty wonders who Percy is playing for—is it to sooth Monty, or himself?

Then the memory of last night hits him, and he turns his face into the pillow completely, wondering if it’s possible to suffocate himself with it. 

“I know you’re awake,” Percy says, still playing. 

“What song is that?” Monty asks into the pillow.

He can hear the smile in Percy’s voice when he replies. “I knew it.”

He turns his head just enough the he would be able to see Percy if he opened his eyes. “Some fancy Beethoven song? The 5th symphony in something minor?”

Percy laughs, and the music comes to a stop. “It’s the Beatles, honestly, Monty.”

Monty opens his eyes to see Percy put his violin away. Monty always likes watching him when he does, which Percy thinks is strange.

But Monty likes watching the care that he takes with it, this small ritual. The way he carefully loosens his bow and puts it in just so. The way that he runs his fingers over the strings when he puts the violin in its case, the way he touches it, careful with something he treasures, but still casual. Familiar and warm and gentle. 

Monty turns his face back into the pillow before Percy can catch him looking. He wants to pull the blankets over his head, but he knows how that would look. Regardless of his own intentions, doing it in front of someone feels overdramatic to the point of comedy, and he can’t stand that.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” Percy cuts himself off, “if you’d want me touching you.”

‘Always,’ Monty bites back. 

“What time is it?” he asks instead. 

“A little after nine. I know, it’s a bit early for you.” The joke falls flat when Monty doesn’t reply. “I thought, maybe we could talk?”

Monty finally opens his eyes to look at Percy. The violin case is still in Percy’s lap, closed but held close. 

“Don’t you have class, like, right now?” Monty asks.

Percy meets his eyes squarely. “This is more important.”

Monty can feel his face flush, and he looks away.

“Look, Percy,” He’s, god, he’s still not wearing anything under the. “It was no big—”

“Don’t you dare,” Percy snaps. “Don’t even try, Monty.”

Monty tries not to flinch back, but he still feels raw, exposed. Percy’s voice has a sharp edge to it and Monty feels utterly defenseless.

Percy winces. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to—”

“God, please don’t apologize,” Monty says. He pushes himself into a sitting position, the sheet pooling around his waist. He fights the urge to pull it back up like some blushing virgin. 

Percy’s eyes go wide, flicking over Monty’s shoulders, his exposed stomach. “God, I—do you want to, um? Get dressed?”

His voice cracks, probably from sheer mortification. It’s like they’re strangers on a bad morning after, and Monty wants to die. 

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Yes, please.” And then, something he’s never had to say to Percy in his life— “Could you look away?”

He feels shame prick up his spine as Percy does, as Monty puts on yesterday’s clothes. Percy’s ears are red, and even through his own mortification he finds it charming. 

“I’m, ah, decent.”

“You’re never decent, Monty,” Percy quips, and for just a moment, it’s just him and Percy, all is right.

And then the moment pops. Monty takes a seat on the bed and, after a moment, Percy joins him. 

“I know you don’t want—” Percy cuts himself off. “Look, whatever I did, I’m sorry. I need to—I never wanted to hurt you.”

“God,” Monty laughs, and it hurts his throat on the way out. “I know  _ that _ !” 

“Oh. Good. Still, I am sorry—”

“Please don’t be sorry.” Monty wants to reach out and take Percy’s hands. He wants to say, I should be sorry, this is all my fault. It wasn’t you. It was never you.

Percy’s hands twist together in his lap. “Right. Okay. So, did you want to,” he trails off. “Should we stop?”

Monty feels his heart stop. He forces his face casual. “Not unless you want to?” Then, before Percy can even open his mouth, the words start to pour out. “I mean, why mess up a good thing. A great thing, even. I mean, it’s definitely helping,” what is he saying, “at least until something better comes along.” Someone better than Monty can’t be too hard to find, but he’ll take what he can get.

Percy turns his face away and clears his throat. “Yeah, okay. Great.” Then Percy turns back to him, and his face is full of resolve. “But I’m not putting another finger on you, until we talk about what I did wrong.”

Monty stands, so quickly that he can tell it startled Percy. “It wasn’t you!” he half shouts. He wants to tear his own hair out, he’s so frustrated. Does Percy want it all laid out for him, all of Monty’s insecurities and fears and flaws? “It was me, it was my stupid—”

Percy catches his hands. For a moment, they stand there, staring at one another. “It wasn’t stupid.” Percy says. 

Monty feels his breath catch, and he has to swallow against the urge to burst into tears. He looks down at their hands. “I thought you said not a finger on me?”

Percy doesn’t rise to the bait. “Was it the blindfold?”

Like this, with Percy holding his hands, holding his gaze, Monty can’t lie. “Not really. I liked the idea of it. I liked trying something new with you.”

Percy swallows at that, and Monty wonders if Percy liked that thought as much as Monty did—the thought that Percy could have one of his firsts. If Monty hadn’t managed to fuck it up.

At this distance, he can see the realization dawn over Percy. It’s as much a relief as it is excruciating. At least he doesn’t have to say it himself. “I knew I shouldn’t have—I didn’t think you would like the names. But the website said—but still, I should have asked you.”

Monty leans forward, just a little. Percy steps to meet him, and Monty rests his head against Percy’s shoulder. “I like it when you tell me I did a good job. I like,” he can feel the heat rising in his face, “I like being good for you.” It’s easier to talk about the things he likes than the things he doesn’t. The things he dislikes feel like they could utterly expose him.

Percy drops his hands, but before Monty can mourn their loss, Percy lets one hand fall to Monty’s hip, an anchoring point. The other hand comes to the nape of his neck, playing absently with Monty’s curls.

“Thank you for telling me,” Percy says. “You did so good, Monty. So good.”

Monty presses further into his shoulder, and breathes, and tries not to cry. 

Percy is such a beautiful lie. 

* * *

Monty has a class at noon, and he has just enough time to run up to his room and grab the key from under his pillow before he’s late. Just having it in his hand makes him feel better. He thumbs over the teeth, feeling the solid weight of it in his pocket. It is, in this moment, worth the risk of Percy catching it on him.

He gets through the day like that, a moment a time, the running careful fingers over the key until it’s warm from his skin. He’s glad that he stayed to talk with Percy, regardless of how mortifying the experience was for them both. Away from the sunlit reality of Percy’s dorm, he has to admit that not knowing where they stood would have hung over him for the rest of the day.

Even so, he swings by the school cafe after all his classes to get Percy a coffee, then heads to Percy’s preferred practice room. Luck is with him, and he can see Percy inside. 

Percy has his eyes closed, moves his whole body into the bowing. His face is creased with emotion, and Monty feels his heart surge at the sight of him. He never gets tired of Percy like this, and he so rarely gets to see it. Percy will practice in front of him, will even play for him on occasion, but not like this. This is Percy laying himself bare. In a way, Monty is suddenly sure of, that Percy has never done in bed with him.

And why should he, Monty thinks with resignation. That’s not what they have here. That’s not what this is for.

When Percy has finished the song, Monty taps the glass with a knuckle, and Percy’s gaze shoots up to him, wide and surprised. 

Monty hardly ever comes to interrupt Percy’s practice time, and he holds up the cup in silent apology. Percy has a flush rising on his cheeks and there is something furtive about the way that he drops his bowing arm to the side. But he gestures for Monty to come in, so Monty doesn’t feel too bad about it. 

“Hey,” Percy says, and his smile is wide and open.

“Hi,” Monty replies. “I brought coffee.”

“So I see.”

For a moment, Monty just looks at him, feeling momentarily overwhelmed by affection. Then, Percy lays his violin across his lap. “So, can I have it?”

“Huh?”

Percy laughs, his soft, affectionate one just for Monty. “The coffee, Monty.”

“Right, yes. Of course.” He hands it over, and when their fingers brush over the handing of it, it feels like the first time. Somehow, his nerves and anxiety over last night has transmuted with his affection for Percy into something that feels like the tender, scared nerves of a first date. 

“Were you there long?”

“Not too long. I didn’t want to interrupt your practice.”

“Just the last fifteen minutes?” 

“Exactly.”

Percy grins. “Well, I’m pretty much done anyway.”

“I could walk you back to your dorm?” Monty offers. He realises how it sounds the moment it passes his lips, but he was only thinking of spending the extra time with Percy.

Percy looks up from putting his violin away, laughing. “Walk me to my dorm? Does that line work for you?”

Monty grins back, cocking out a hip. “You’ll have to tell me.”

Percy gives him a teasing once over, and even for all the humor in his face, it still sets Monty alight. “Yeah, alright.”

Monty presents his arm like a proper gentleman. Percy rolls his eyes but he’s still smiling, and he takes Monty’s arm. 

The walk back to Percy’s room isn’t long enough.

When they get back to the room, Percy lets go and hooks his thumb at the door. “This is me.” He leans his back against the door, and the line of his body is a deliberate provocation. “Did you want to come in?”

God, Monty could live his entire life in that smile, with Percy teasing and happy.

“For some coffee?” Monty replies.

“Nah, I thought maybe for some sex.” 

Jesus. Monty wants to kiss him so badly. He bites his own lip to control the urge. Instead, he reaches past Percy to open the door. Percy only takes a step back to steady himself, and the motion leaves them still pressed together. 

“We should…” Percy trails off, and his gaze is fixed on Monty’s lips. Monty swallows hard. He is sure, utterly sure, that in this moment, Percy wants to kiss him. And Monty badly wants to be kissed. 

He swallows. Pulls away. “We should close the door,” he finishes for him. Percy doesn’t want this, he reminds himself. 

“Yeah.” 

The closing of the door seems to reverberate through the room, and the two of them are suddenly alone with the memory of how badly last night went. 

“Can I,” Percy steps into him again, and his hands settle on Monty’s hips. 

Monty is suddenly, horribly aware that he didn’t take the key back to his room. It’s still in his pocket.

He represses the urge to step back, but the half move ripples through him like a flinch and Percy takes a step back. 

Monty reaches out and grabs Percy’s shirt front, pulls him back. “You can do whatever you want,” desperate for Percy not to see that as a rejection. 

Percy reaches out, and his touch is hesitant. “You’re sure?”

In a moment of sheer panic, Monty reaches does the only thing he can think of to both reassure Percy and to also make sure that Percy won’t learn that Monty has saved the key, that he has been carrying it around like a child’s blanket. 

He takes his trousers and pants off. 

“Oh.” Percy looks at him. Monty feels ridiculous. “Okay then.”

With gentle hands, careful hands, he reaches out and undoes the buttons on Monty’s shirt. When Monty goes to shrug it off, Percy stops him. “No, leave it.”

His touches are soft. Monty is reminded of how Percy oh-so-carefully placed the violin in it’s case this morning. 

Percy trails fingers down Monty’s flank as he gets to his knees. For the first time that they’ve done this, Percy has no orders, no commands. Monty can do nothing but stand there and be touched as Percy takes him apart with such delicacy, with soft hands and mouth. 

Percy noses against the seam of Monty’s hip and Monty makes a low, desperate noise. When Percy looks up him, there is something mischievous sparking in his eyes. Monty is weak. His knees tremble. 

Percy nudge at his hips, ever so slightly. Careful not to be a command. When Monty follows the touch, he feels the door at his back, solid, reliable. He leans into it, tilts his head back before the sight of Percy on his knees, looking up at him with such tender affection, can undo him completely. 

With his gaze turned away, the first touch of Percy’s mouth takes him by surprise, tears a moan from him. Percy licks up his shaft in one long, smooth motion before he sucks the head into his mouth.

Monty’s hands scramble at the door, scramble for control, for purchase. 

When Percy chuckles, low and smooth, Monty almost comes right then. He hasn’t had this much of a hair trigger since he was a teenager. Then Percy’s hands are taking his. For a moment, Percy tries to move Monty’s hands into his hair, but Monty doesn’t let go of Percy’s fingers, and after a moment, Percy allows it.

The touch anchors him and he can focus on that and not thrust into Percy’s mouth. For all his confidence, despite the way that Percy is taking him apart, Percy doesn’t have Monty’s experience with this.

Percy hasn’t done this very much. Has, as far as Monty knows, never done this before.

He keens at the thought, at the sensations, and Percy’s hand tightens around his. He can’t help it. He looks.

Percy’s face is flushed, his curls in utter disarray. His eyes are closed and he looks, in his moment, content. His mouth is obscene, stretched around Monty. 

He seems to sense Monty’s gaze, and his eyes flicker open. When their eyes meet, Percy sucks, hard. His eyes are wide, dark. 

Monty comes.

Percy coaxes him through it, his hands still cleched tight on Monty’s. When Monty slips from his mouth, he realizes with some surprise that Percy’s grip is tight enough to hurt.

Monty sinks to his knees, his face next to Percy’s. He presses a kiss to their joint hands, and Percy allows the touch, seems to lean into him. Monty presses their foreheads together, and for a moment they are breathing one anothers air.

Monty wants to give Percy the world.

“Let me,” he says into the space between them. He lets go of Percy’s hand and regrets the loss, but when he puts the hand between Percy’s legs, he finds him hard and wanting.

The noise Percy makes when Monty touches him makes Monty thinks he can get hard again. He strokes Percy through his trousers, and Percy keens, his head falling to Monty’s shoulder. The slide of a hand into trousers is a familiar move to Monty, but here, now, it feels new. It feels like it could be the first time he’s ever done this. 

Percy spills into his hand with a muffled curse, and Monty bites his own lip to fight the need to kiss him. He draws out his hand and slowly, carefully, licks it clean, holding Percy’s gaze.

“Holy fuck,” Percy says, and he sways forward. 

Monty knows a lifetime of crossing lines. Last night was a study in where both their lines are and should be. In how important communication is in this. The one, consistent thing that Percy has expressed is that he does not want to kiss. Doesn’t want to blur that line. And this would be crossing it utterly.

Monty leans away. It tears at something in him; to move away from Percy when he only ever wants to move closer, but he does.

Percy’s face is unreadable for a moment, two. Then he pushes himself to his feet, holds a hand down to help Monty up.

“Did you want to?” Percy jerks his head at the bed. He is an unbearable temptation. 

But Monty has a secret in his pocket and the longer he stays—

“Nah. I have class tomorrow.”

Percy nods, and Monty tugs on his trousers in easy, comfortable movements. He feels good, happy. Better than he would have thought possible.

He hears something thunk after Percy closes the door, but when he turns back, the door is closed and he puts it out of his mind, already moving on to a new topic. He needs something to give to Percy that can make Percy even half as happy as Percy makes him.

  
  


* * *

“I cannot believe you got tickets to this,” Percy says. Monty is honestly never going to get tired of that expression on his face. The open joy, the excitement. Monty would buy him an entire orchestra to play for him personally just to see Percy look like that every day. 

“It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t,” Percy says. “Monty, thank you.”

Monty swallows under the full force of Percy’s smile. He feels somewhat dumbstruck. “Seriously, it wasn’t—”

“Say you’re welcome, Monty.”

Monty’s lips twitch up in a smile. “You’re welcome, Monty.”

Percy punches his arm, lightly. “Smartass.”

Monty grins. “You love my ass, don’t lie.”

The look Percy gives him says, very clearly, that Percy would absolutely be smacking his ass if they weren’t in public. 

And then Percy’s eyes are sliding past him, taking in the orchestral hall. Monty has to take him by his elbow and guide him up the stairs to their private box, because Percy is too busy staring in wonder. 

“Someday, you’ll play places like this,” he says. 

Percy laughs. “What, with my stirring legal speeches? The music is just for fun.”

“But you’re so good!” Monty protests. Percy shakes his head.

“Thank you. But I don’t have to be famous. I don’t have to sell out concert halls and play concertos. It’s something just for me.” 

Monty just shakes his head. He doesn’t understand Percy’s determination to be a lawyer when he’s clearly so good at music, when he enjoys it so much, but he’s learned not to push. 

“Our seats are up here. I called ahead, no one will say anything about Malory.”

Percy reaches out and gives his arm a squeeze. Monty reaches out and takes his hand, squeezing back. For a second, he feels Percy’s hand tug against him like Percy is going to pull away. When he doesn’t, Monty breathes a silent sigh of relief. 

“This way.” Fundamentally, every fancy theatre and opera house is laid out the same. He uses their joint hands to pull Percy up the stairs, going slow enough that Malory doesn’t get lost in the crowds. 

“A private box?” Percy asks, when Monty pushes aside the curtain. 

“Anything could happen,” Monty replies, salaciously. 

“Yeah. We could watch some amazing musicians,” Percy replies. Monty shoves at Percy with his shoulder and uses their joint hands to reel him back in the same move. 

“I got us the entire box.” Monty confides. 

Percy pats his hand. “That’s nice.”

“You’re terrible.” 

Percy snorts a laugh. “No, you’re terrible!”

Monty drops down into his chair with an indignant hmph. He doesn’t let go of their hands, so Percy is dragged down beside him. 

“Monty!” Percy exclaims, properly laughing. No matter how good the music is, it won’t sound as good as that, Monty is sure. 

“All right, all right, I’ll behave,” he says, finally pulling his hand free. It feels cold in all the places Percy’s fingers had touched his. He crosses his arms over his chest and tucks it under the crook of his other arm. 

Percy flexes his hand, and Monty feels his own clench into fists at the sight. 

“So, tell me about why I’m supposed to be impressed by some eighty year old cello player?” he asks, purely for the pleasure of seeing the face that Percy makes. 

“It’s,” Percy splutters for a moment, “Monty, it’s Yo Yo Ma!”

“And is he not an eighty year old cello player?” Monty asks. 

Percy blows out an exasperated breath. “I know you’re just trying to rile me up.” 

Monty watches him for a moment. People are still filing into seats on the mezzanine floor. He has time.

“Dammit,” Percy says. “Monty, he is the most decorated, the most talented—Monty. You don’t understand.”

Monty spends the next twenty minutes leading up to the performance listening to Percy explain to him the entire life history of Yo Yo Ma, occasionally interjecting crucial questions like “Will I even understand it, if he’s Chinese?” and “Why do you even like this, I thought you played the violin.”

The best part is that Percy knows that Monty is messing with him, and he still responds so vividly. Percy can get so passionate, so inspired. Monty has never met anything in his life, except perhaps Percy himself, that he cares for as much as Percy cares about music. 

Percy is still talking up until the lights fell, and then the music starts. Watching Percy watch the show is just as good as listening to Percy talk about it. Better, perhaps. Percy is utterly enraptured. 

Monty can hear the music. He can appreciate that it is, to the extent of his knowledge, good music. But much more important is the way that Percy leans forward in his chair, the way that his eyes are wide with wonder, his mouth the slightest bit open like he wants to sing along. Like he wants to be kissed. 

Monty isn’t sure how much time has passed when Percy leans over to him. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he whispers.

“Yes,” Monty whispers back, perfectly honest. 

He sees Percy’s lips turn up into a smile and feels his own heartbeat in response. 

“I’m glad.”

Another song—Monty thinks that it is a new song, he’s not entirely clear where one song ends and another begins—finishes, and he almost drops out of his chair when he feels Percy’s hand on his thigh. 

Percy just holds it there, and Monty is hyper-aware of everything. The warm heat of Percy’s fingers. The sound of the music in his ears, the way the conductor moves his arm because that’s safer to look at than Percy.

Then Percy’s hand is sliding up Monty’s leg, his fingers trailing deliberately over Monty’s inseam.

“I’m so glad that you’re enjoying the music,” Percy says, leaning close enough that the ghost of his words brush the shell of Monty’s ear. 

“Yeah,” Monty gasps, fighting to keep his voice steady. “It’s amazing.”

Percy’s hand slips into his trousers, and Monty is somewhat embarrassed to find that even though Percy has barely touched him, Monty is already hard. He thinks he’ll always be like this. Tuned to Percy’s touch, receptive to whatever Percy is willing to give him. 

Slowly, tortuously, Percy begins to stroke him. It’s an awkward angle, Percy’s hand trapped by the fabric of Monty’s pants. It doesn’t dissuade Percy, who adjusts by touching him with light fingers, running up and down his cock with sure movement.

When he runs his thumb over Monty’s slit, Monty lets out a low whine under his breath and Percy stops moving utterly. Monty lets out another, smothered whimper. 

“I really like the music, Monty,” Percy says. “You need to be quiet so we can hear it.”

God, Monty thinks that it’s all he can hear. It seems to have replaced his blood, the notes rushing through his veins, pulsing his ears. He nods frantically, and Percy resumes his careful strokes. 

Percy, Monty is starting to realize, enjoys talking while they do this. But this time, Percy is utterly silent. 

No, Monty realizes, as the music builds in time with Percy’s touches, Percy is letting the music do the talking for him.

It’s such a thought, the idea that Percy may have planned this, that Percy has timed this with the music, because he has, he clearly has, each touch in tune with the strum of the cello, almost sends Monty over the edge.

His head thumps back, his spine arches and he almost, almost comes there and then. Except that the music is still building. It seems to hang in the air like a storm cloud, like lightning in the air, and every note says not yet.

It’s a slow build, Percy’s breath against his ear, the sweet climb of the music, the way the music finally breaks and Percy doesn’t even change his grip, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t do a thing except let the music sweep over them both in a trembling wave and Monty is coming.

Percy gentles him through it, and Monty listens to the music winding down and thinks that he has got to find out what the song is. 

“I love this song,” Percy says, as he pulls his hand away and discreetly cleans his hands with— 

“Is that a handkerchief?” Monty asks incredulously. 

“Shhh,” Percy says, tucking what is definitely a handkerchief back into his pocket. “The show is still going on.”

Monty rolls his eyes. He’s actually about to just settle back in his chair and enjoy the rest of the concert in a post-coital glow, but then he catches sight of Percy’s lap, and Percy is definitely hard. No matter how often they do this, each time that Monty gets actual visual evidence that Percy is enjoying this as well, that he can get hard just from putting his hands on Monty, is a revelation.

He slips out of chair and settles on his knees before Percy. The orchestra has moved into a different song. 

“Monty, what—” Percy’s hand settles on Monty’s shoulder, holding him back.

“Shh,” Monty says, looking up at Percy with a smirk. “Just enjoy the music.” He unzips Percy’s trousers. “I think you’ll like this song as well.”

Percy’s hands flutter for a moment when Monty takes Percy into his mouth. Monty tries to follow Percy’s cue, timing his movements to the beat of the music, letting the notes guide him. Percy seems to respond, his hands going to Monty’s hair. 

Percy isn’t quite as good at being quiet as Monty is, and his soft inhalations and small moans can just barely carry to Monty on the floor. No one outside the booth would be able to hear them, and to Monty they only add to the music, the sweet sounds of Percy’s pleasure twining with the notes, accentuating the song.

Percy thrusts into his mouth with a long slide of bow across strings and Percy lets go of Monty’s hair to shove a fist into his own mouth muffling the sound that almost spills out.

When they get home, Monty wants to spread Percy out on a bed and take his time with him, to hear him make every one of the noises that he keeps biting back.

Despite his best efforts, Monty doesn’t know the music like Percy does, can’t perfectly time his actions to the rhythms, so when Percy comes with a sharp gasp audible even around his fist, it takes Monty by surprise. 

He swallows quickly, and he’s barely finished when Percy pulls him up. For a moment, they just look at one another, the music a backdrop. 

Then Percy reaches out with one hand and smoothes his thumb over Monty’s lips. “You have—” he curls his palm over Monty’s cheek and uses it to pull Monty into him. 

Their lips meet over the crescendo of music and to Monty is sounds like a hallelujah chorus. Percy’s lips are chapped and Percy has definitely not kissed as many people as Monty has, but it’s possibly the best kiss that Monty has ever had. 

He leans back and tugs Percy with him into Monty’s chair, so that Percy is straddling Monty’s hips. God, if Monty hadn’t just come, he’d be ready to go again, just from this. 

“Come home with me,” he whispers into Percy’s lips. It’s an utterly ridiculous thing to say. They traveled here together. They’re going back to the same stupid dorms. But there is something in the words, something with meaning and intent, and Percy seems to know exactly what he means. 

“Okay,” Percy replies. “Okay.”

And he leans in again for another kiss, their lips parting and coming together again as the music plays around them. 

* * *

They practically stumble into Monty’s dorm room, Malory almost getting tangled up around their legs and nearly tripping them both.

“Get on the bed,” Monty gasps out, tugging at Percy’s shirt, trying to undo all his fiddly buttons. In the end, he grips the shirt in both hands and rips it down the center, sending buttons flying.

“You owe me a new shirt,” Percy says.

“I’ll buy you five bloody shirts if you want,” Monty say, pushing Percy back onto his bed. He feels frantic. They don’t do this, they’ve only ever done it as a scene, with Percy giving orders and Monty letting himself slip away. He feels more present in his skin now than he ever has. 

He’s terrified that Percy is going to call this off, to push Monty away and confess that no, this was a mistake, they can only do it the one way.

But Percy just pushes Monty’s blazer off his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground, reaches for the hem of Monty’s shirt. Monty lets Percy strip it off of him before he pushes Percy back down onto the bed. 

“Can I?” he leans over Percy, lets his mouth hover over Percy’s like he has so many times before. And this time is different. This time, Percy surges up to meet him, pressing their lips together, sucking on Monty’s lower lip until Monty has to climb up onto the bed beside him or risk his legs going out from underneath him. 

Then he has to climb back off so they can both get their trousers off, because the bed isn’t big enough to do it side by side, and then he gets distracted just staring at Percy. He’s so lovely, dark against Monty’s sheets, his hair a shadow on the pillow. 

“What do you want?” Monty asks, the one question Percy always asks and which Monty himself has never been able to answer. 

“I was thinking, maybe you could fuck me,” Percy says, and his voice is shy. This is so utterly removed from how this usually goes, and any second now—

“Yeah.” Monty swallows. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

He strips off his own trousers and pants and joins Percy on the bed, stretched out side by side. 

“Have you done this before?” he asks, and Percy makes a face at him.

“Yeah, actually, thanks for the confidence.”

“Oh. You never said.”

Percy shrugs. “It wasn’t very good. Didn’t seem to be worth mentioning.”

Everything in Percy’s life is worth mentioning. 

Monty turns away to grab lube and a condom from the bedside table. “Like this?” he asks, pleads, and Percy nods. 

Monty prepares Percy with fingers that almost shake, feeling like this is the most important thing he’ll ever do. Every press of his hands, every place he touches Percy with lips and fingers feels like a different confession. Percy lies back and shakes and tremors, and all the noises he had been repressing at the concert spill out into the air until Monty thinks he might die from them.

“Now, do it now,” Percy gasps, pressing his feet flat on the bed and tilting his hips up in a clear invitation. 

Monty leans over him, and Percy allows this kiss as well, and so Monty gets to feel the way Percy’s mouth goes slack with pleasure when Monty pushes in slowly, so slowly. He doesn’t want to hurt him.

“Is this alright?” he asks, watching Percy’s face, trying to gauge from his expression. 

“Yes,” Percy says, and it comes out as a keen, a plea. His gaze sharpens on Monty’s face. "Faster," he says. "You can go faster."

Monty accelerates the pace very slightly and feels Percy's cock respond, brushing between them. When he adjusts the angle, Percy’s entire spine arches up and he makes a sound that rips through Monty, threatening to make him come right there. He holds on to his self-control by inches and fucks into Percy in languid strokes.

“God, faster, Monty, please,” Percy begs, and Monty ignores him, setting the pace, wanting Percy to feel as consumed as Monty does every second they’re together. Wanting him to feel as loved.

He leans in to press a kiss to Percy’s lips, and pulls back before it can become anything else. 

As Monty hits the right angle again, Percy makes a sudden sound of infinite surprise and comes again, pupils dilating to near-total darkness. Monty leans in to kiss his parted lips, feeling the slickness between their bodies. 

Percy responds to the kiss eagerly but pulls away when Monty's breath catches, staggering, moving toward the brink.

“There you are, darling,” Percy says, with such fond affection that is strikes Monty right between the ribs. Percy hardly ever uses endearments, hasn’t used them once since they started this whole mess, and the sound of that familiar epithet falling off his lips, the feeling of Percy’s eyes on him, of Percy’s hands clenched on his hips. The impossible rightness of this moment, of the two of them together, sends Monty over the edge. 

Fire and light rage through his body and he feels his head fall back, hears himself making noises, hears Percy saying something, far away and so close.

* * *

Monty has never been particularly good at people. Let it never be said that Monty is unaware of his own flaws. He knows that he can be tactless, rude, abrasive. He knows how people see him: a spoiled, privileged brat. It’s something Percy has always, somehow, managed to see past, even when his own sister couldn’t. 

And more than that, Monty knows that he can be, perhaps above all things, oblivious. He doesn’t always see what other people might see as obvious. But he can’t stop thinking about the way that Percy had touched him last night, the way that Percy’s mouth had felt on his skin, the soft noises Percy had made, the words both of them had bitten back. 

He doesn’t know what Percy’s words had been, but he knows his own. He knows what thought has dominated his mind when Percy had touched him with such loving, caring hands. Monty never really thought of himself as having a Line when it comes to Percy. He’ll take whatever it is that Percy has to give him, even if this facsimile of a relationship is all that Percy wants. But between the concert and the night before, Monty is starting to wonder if that premise itself is flawed. 

And if there is a chance, even a small chance, that Percy might feel the same way that he does, he has to take it. It’s not bravery. It’s grasping at straws. It’s seeing his future stretched out before him, a vast wasteland where Percy claps him on the shoulder and refuses to kiss him and sleeps with him when no one is around to know about it. 

* * *

The cafe is crowded, it always is. No matter the time of day, students flock to the cafe in rain or sun and the one memorable blizzard that had left the campus in knee deep snow. Monty manages to edge two freshman out of a table, big enough that Malory can lay down underneath without dominating the entire walkway. Monty wouldn’t give a damn, but Percy always hated it.

Percy drops in his chair almost twenty minutes after they were supposed to meet, which is so unusual for him that Monty was starting to worry that he had actually died. Monty gives Malory a quick scratch hello. 

“Sorry about the delay, class was a nightmare,” Percy says. 

Monty feels his heart sink. Percy is lying to him. Monty is fairly aware of Percy’s schedule, in a non-creepy, not-stalkerish kind of way, and Percy has an early morning class and an afternoon class, with gap around lunchtime that he always complains about having to fill—inasmuch as Percy ever complains about anything.

“It’s no problem,” Monty gives Percy his most winning smile. “I ordered you a tea, but I’m afraid it’s gone a bit cold.”

Percy gives the cup in front of him a suspicious look. “So it has.” He takes a sip and grimaces. “It doesn’t chill well, does it?”

Monty feels his smile slim into something more natural. Percy is allowed his secrets—Monty has certainly been keeping his own in the past few years. Percy wouldn’t lie to him without a good reason. 

“I can get you another?” Monty offers. It can’t hurt to butter Percy up before dropping the truth bomb of his confession. 

“No, thanks. I shall persevere.”

“I suppose it is what you get for being so terribly late,” Monty teases.

Percy gives him a fond, amused look that has never failed to turn Monty to butter. “I’m glad that you waited.”

I will always wait for you, Monty emphatically does not say. Instead, he bites the words back, feels them burn the back of his mouth and says “No big deal. I had some stupid philosophy work to do anyway.”

Opening his philosophy book and staring blankly at the pages thinking of all the ways Percy could react counts as work, right? 

“You? Working?” Percy teases. Monty puts his hand over his heart as if wounded, and Percy grins at him. 

“There was something I wanted to talk to you about,” Monty begins. His heart is racing. He may pass out. 

“Oh?” Percy takes a sip of his cold tea and grimaces. 

“Yeah.” Monty tries to dry his palms on his trousers. “About,” he gestures between the two of them.

“Me too.”

Monty can feel a smile start to break out on his face. His heart is racing. “Cool. Great. I guess I’ll just,” he feels his hands flail and brings them back to the table with a concentrated effort, “cut to the chase then. I know we’ve been doing this whole, um, sex thing.”

Percy twitches a little, and Monty finds it unbearably charming that someone who can order Monty to get on his knees still blushes at the word sex aloud. He feels the rush of something in his blood, something confirming and pleased and good as he barrels on. 

“And I was just thinking that we should—”

“Stop,” Percy says, just as Monty says 

“Re-evaluate.”

Then he can only blink over at Percy, the joy in his veins turning to ice. “I’m sorry, stop… talking?”

“Stop the sex thing.” Percy says. Monty doesn’t know what to make of the expression on his face, and he can count on one hand the number of times that’s happened. 

“Oh. Right.” God. Monty has been struck across the face, has been hit in the stomach hard enough to knock him to his knees. It pales in comparison to this. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

His can feel a rushing in his face, feel his stomach sinking to his shoes. 

“You also wanted to stop?” Percy clarifies. 

Monty musters up his best smile. “God, yes. I’m so glad that you agree.” He feels like he is going to fly apart. He wants to lie down and dissolve into his component atoms. “Not that this hasn’t been fun. It’s been absolutely smashing, darling. But it just makes sense to end it now. Quit while you’re ahead, yes?”

“Exactly my thoughts,” Percy says. He’s twisting his napkin between his fingers, and Monty watches as he pulls it into smaller and smaller pieces. Monty knows the feeling. 

“I love,” Monty has to stop and swallow as the words catch in his throat. “I love how we’re always on the same page.” 

Percy meets his eyes, and Monty is struck once again by how perfectly lovely Percy is. How much it hurts that Percy doesn’t want him. How, Monty is sure now, Percy will never want him.

“Me too, Monty,” Percy says. He takes a quick sip of tea and doesn’t even seem to notice.

“And this is,” Monty swallows, but he has to be sure. “This is what you want?”

Percy stares down into his tea for a long moment. “Yeah. It is.”

“Great.” Monty would very much like to leave right now. “That worked out perfectly, didn’t it?”

“Yeah. I suppose it did.”

Monty, acting on impulse, reaches out and grabs Percy’s hand. He feels Percy tense under him, but mercifully, he doesn’t pull away. 

“Thank you again for,” for giving me almost everything I ever wanted. For being a rock when I was falling apart. For putting up with me for as long as you have, “for helping with this.”

“Anytime.” Percy says. Then, abruptly, he pulls his hand back. “Except, you know. Not. Because.” His hands flutter nervously.

“Yeah,” Monty makes himself laugh, because anything is better than hearing how Percy will end that sentence. “Obviously.”

“I have to go finish my essay for ethics and justice,” Percy says. 

Monty watches him go. His stomach is churning, self-loathing and regret and despair making him nauseous. 

He makes it to the bathroom before he throws up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains a character needing to use a safeword during sex and then NOT doing so. Their partner realizes that something is wrong and stops.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to believe this story is done, it feels like I started it ages ago. Thank you so much to everyone who has read, reviewed, subscribed or liked. It meant everything to me and I love you all. Please enjoy the final chapter of Keep the Key Within Reach.

The thing is, the worst thing is, Monty can’t just fall apart. As much as he achingly, desperately wants to go to the local pub and get too hammered to remember the last three months, he can’t.

Because then Percy would know. And the only thing worse than Percy not wanting him is Percy knowing that Monty is desperately in love with him and still not wanting him.

So he has to be fine. This whole thing had started because Monty had been reeling from the Tape, and he doesn’t have that leisure now. He and Percy live in one another’s pockets, they always have. If Monty is anything other than blase about this, anything other than utterly fine, Percy will know.

So Monty goes to classes. He puts the key on a chain and wears it under his shirt, because it’s not as though Percy will have any occassion to see it now. He studies with Percy. He does his radio show. He gives Malory pats on the head, and turns in essays on time and doesn’t get drunk and he’s fine.

* * *

 

He’s not fine.

 

* * *

 

Despite Monty’s, and he suspects Percy’s, best intentions, it is awkward. Monty brings his books to Percy’s on Wednesday, and he can hardly even bring himself to look at the bed. Percy has already claimed the desk, and Monty hesitates before he just gives up and sits on the floor instead.

Malory, precious thing that she is, takes this as an invitation, and climbs into his lap to kiss his face. He scratches her ears, which earns him an appreciative wiggle before she climbs off of him.

When Monty looks up, Percy is watching them. The second their eyes meet, they both look away, and Monty can feel heat blooming on his face. He hadn’t even been this easily flustered back when he was an actual virgin.

“So, ah,” Monty flips his textbook open to a random page, “what are you working on?”

“Paper for my sociology class,” Percy replies. “You?”

Nothing. Monty is, astoundingly, miles ahead on his homework. It’s somehow easier to focus on that than on the urge to go out and get drunk, and for once in his life he truly does not want to do that.

“Just some work for my ethics class.”

“Oh. Cool.” They both stare down at their respective books.

Absently, Monty raises a hand to the key around his neck, then forces his hand down before Percy can see it.

“Did you want to go sit on the lawn?” Percy asks.

“Yes!” Monty coughs. “I mean, yeah. That sounds good.” Anything not in this room. Anything not at the cafe where Percy had-- where they had-- anywhere else.

Percy seems just as relieved as Monty and immediately starts shoving his laptop into his backpack. Monty returns his book to his own bag and stands.

The walk through the dorms is quiet, each attempt at conversation immediately stymied by the memory of what they’d had and then lost. Or, well, that was how Monty saw it. Maybe Percy was relieved to no longer have to put up with him. Maybe Percy was glad they were done with this, pleased that they could go back to their simple, platonic relationship.

The thought makes Monty feel sick with guilt. The idea that Percy could be thinking of what they had as something simple between them, when Monty had stored away every touch, every noise. When Monty would remember the feel of Percy’s lips on his for his entire life.

Percy picks a spot under a tree, just barely out of the reach of the sun, and Monty settles close enough that their shoulders touch. Percy moves to reach for his bag and when he resettles, there is a careful distance between them.

It’s back to the way they had been in the weeks after the Tape, when Percy had only barely been able to look at him, nevermind touch him. As though Monty is something corrosive, disgusting.

Last year, they had sat on this same spot of grass, and Monty had been able to rest his head on Percy’s leg while they both read, and Percy had laid his hand on Monty’s head and it had been uncomplicated and simple and lovely.

Monty wishes that he had never started this whole thing. He should have sucked it up, gone back to Eleftheria or stuck to pulling at clubs and never let Percy get dragged into this.

“Percy,” the word falls out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“Hm?” Percy is busying himself with his book, but Monty knows him well enough to recognise that he’s faking it.

“I hope that you know, I mean, what we did. I want to say--”

“Monty,” Percy cuts him off, and his voice is strained. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

Right.

Monty swallows.

“Of course. I only- we’re still friends. Right?” He hates how his voice shakes.

That makes Percy look at him, meet his eyes for the first time since the cafe.

“God, yes. Of course. I mean, if that’s what-”

“Just try and get rid of me, Newton,” Monty says.

“I would never,” Percy replies, voice soft. Monty feels his heart lurch, and he curses this perfect, wonderful boy who is so much more than Monty has ever deserved.

Monty gives him a soft smile, all he can muster. “I’m glad.”

Percy bumps their shoulders together. “Me too.”

This time, when they settle, Percy doesn’t lean away, lets their arms be pressed together.

 

* * *

 

Monty has a serious debate with himself about whether he’s going back to STAR the following Friday. He’s in no mood to have people calling in to ask about the Tape or make lewd jokes about him. He just wants to play music and talk to people who call in wanting to know where to get condoms at half midnight on a Friday.

The Tape itself is mostly old news by now, especially since Monty has mostly managed to stay out of the papers so far, but the show seems to have built upon itself, and everyone seems to enjoy calling in to hear what he’ll say.

In the end, he goes. Because, miserable as it’s been the last few weeks, he does enjoy doing the show. And, perhaps more than that, because he’d agreed to host this show, and to not show up would put everyone else in the terrible position of having to cover for him.

Sinjon gives him the once-over that Monty has become accustomed from him, and they exchange a few lines of flirtation, but Monty’s heart isn’t in it, and Sinjon can clearly tell.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Sinjon just gives him a look, and his blue eyes are as lovely as ever, and Monty can’t even bring himself to care.

Monty pushes a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing, really.”

Sinjon reaches up and tilts his chin up. He really is so lovely.

“Chin up, Monty.”

Monty musters up a smile. “Always.”

Sinjon winks at him. “There’s that smile. I can leave in peace now.”

That makes the smile a little wider. When Sinjon retracts his hand, he does it slowly, fingers lingering on Monty’s jaw. When Sinjon counts Monty down, he gives him another wink before he goes, and Monty winks back.

Predictably, the calls start rolling in less than fifteen minutes into the show. He dispenses with the drunk ones, flirts back with the ones who only want a laugh, and tries tries to ignore the fact that, in this instant, he hates everyone.

“Hello, this is apparently Monty’s sexual rejection line, how can I help you?” he answers the next time the phone rings. It’s almost certainly going to get him in trouble with one of the faculty advisors next week, but fuck it. If anyone should get in trouble, it’s the assholes who are calling in to give him a hard time.

“Um, yeah. Hi?” To his surprise, the caller is young, can’t be much into her first year. “I’m calling about your sex tape.” Monty makes a noise, and she immediately adds “Please don’t hang up.”

“Alright.” Monty says it through gritted teeth.

“I only. So my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. He put a tape out too. Of me. And you always seem so, you know. Cool about it. And people have been saying things. About me. Not about you. Well, about you too, but you never seem to care. So. Um. I just wanted to know what your secret is?”

For a second, Monty almost lies to her. He almost plays it off, and gives her some shit about how he doesn’t care because he knows how good he looks in that tape or something.

“There isn’t a secret, really,” he says. And then, because he’s pretty sure the poor girl is crying, and that her life has the potential to be ruined in a way that his won’t ever be, because he has money and status, and also he’s listened to Felicity enough to know that it has to be even worse for girls, he adds. “There isn’t really an alternative, you know? You have to be okay with it, you have to be cool. Because the alternative is to lie down and cry.”

Oh, God, he doesn’t even want to think about how many other people must be hearing this.

“So,” god, she is definitely crying now. “There’s nothing I can do?”

“Well,” Monty hesitates. “Besides keeping your head high, which I fully stand by as a coping mechanism, there is also— okay look. Revenge porn, which includes your ex posting videos of you on the internet, is totally illegal in the UK. So you can apply to have it removed, and they have to comply. And you can also press criminal charges.”

“But, if it’s that easy, why didn’t you do it?”

Monty swallows. “Look. I’m not saying it’s easy. It’s fucking hard,” can he swear on the radio? He’s pretty sure he can’t, “but it’s worth doing. People are still going to be assholes about it. But it’s something to do while you’re also keeping calm and carrying on.”

“But your video is still up!” she protests, which is honestly more information than he wanted to have.

“There are certain exceptions, in the law. For public interest stories. Which includes celebrities, political figures, and members of the peerage such as myself. But what applies to me doesn’t necessarily apply to you, unless I’m speaking to the Duchess of Kent, in which case I apologize for not giving your Grace the respect you deserve.”

That earns him a weak laugh, which is what he had been aiming for.

“No, I’m just a girl from Wales.”

“Splendid,” Monty says, repressing his reflexive high-born urge to say something derisive about the Welsh. “In that case, I suggest availing yourself of our justice system. And in the meantime, remember that people suck, but true friends will always have your back,” he hesitates. “And you can always call back here if you need someone to talk to.”

The girl thanks him tearfully and bids him farewell. He lets her go with a smile, feeling slightly better at the idea that his own miserable experiences could have carved out a path for someone else to make their way forward.

“Well, I think that’s enough of our touching feelings hour. If anyone else has questions to ask, you can wait until our next commercial break.” Monty mechanically cues up the next four songs, takes his headphones off, and very carefully breathes for the next fifteen minutes.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the show actually goes well. He doesn’t get any more assholes calling in. He supposes even for the intoxicated masses on a college campus, calling to mock someone about a sex tape after a crying first year called in on the subject seems a bit low.

Sonia even stops him on his way out. “Hey, that was cool of you,” she says. “You didn’t have to help her like that.”

Monty ducks under her hand. “Yeah, I really did,” he says, and stays only long enough to count her down.

 

* * *

 

When he gets back to his room, Monty is surprised to see Percy waiting for him again. Percy isn’t on the bed this time, but still.

“Is this going to be a habit now?” he asks as he closes the door. “You waiting for me after my show ends?”

“I like listening to you,” Percy says.

“Oh yeah,” Monty laughs, a bit bitterly, “my show is a barrel of laughs.”

“You know, I think that was the most I’ve ever heard you say about the,” Percy swallows.

“The sex tape, starring me?” Monty says, dropping down onto his bed. “I’ve found it helps to say it aloud.”

“Yes. That. We never really talked about it.”

“Did you ever occur to you that maybe that was by design?” Monty puts his arm over his face, not wanting to look at anything.

“You always made it seem like it was some grand joke. It wasn’t until…” Percy trails off.

Until it had become too apparent to ignore. Until Monty had all but crawled to Percy on his fucking knees, needing more than Percy could give him.

“Well fuck, Percy, maybe that was by design too. Maybe I didn’t want to talk about.”

“Maybe you should have.”

“With whom?” Monty sits up, frustration crackling through his veins. “With you? Do you remember those first few weeks? You wouldn’t even look at me, Percy. You could hardly even touch me. And what, you wanted me to sit at your feet and tell you how much I hated fucking Richard Peele, and how much it fucking sucked, and I didn’t think I could trust a single person in the world except you, and then have you look like you would rather jump out the fucking window than talk about the Tape with me?”

“I didn’t—”

Monty laughs. “You really did, Percy. You made it more than clear that it was the last thing you wanted to think about, much less discuss. You hardly looked me in the face until—” He stalls out. For a moment, they just stare at one another.

“I’m sorry,” Percy says quietly.

Monty covers his face again. “Please, Percy. Just, go.”

Percy doesn’t press the issue. Doesn't try and touch him, doesn’t try to say anything else. Just gets to his feet and leaves. Monty keeps his face covered until he hears the door click.

He falls asleep with Percy’s key clutched in his hand, wondering how he managed to fuck this up yet again.

 

* * *

 

Monty’s first class back on Monday is Philosophy of Law, and he hates how much he honestly enjoys the class. He hadn’t spoken to Percy all weekend, the two of them avoiding one another by mutual agreement. Monty feels like he should apologize. It’s not Percy’s fault that Monty had gotten himself into such a mess, and it wasn’t his fault that Monty had expected, wanted, so much from him.

He’s thinking about how best to reach out to Percy when he enters the class and immediately realizes that something is wrong. The second he steps through the doos, all eyes swing to him in perfect unison. It had happened often at the start of the semester, but somewhere during the third week, his classmates had mostly gotten over the novelty of sharing a room with the next Kardashian.

The expression on their faces means fresh meat.

“Hey there, lover boy,” Christopher whistles. Monty sets his jaw and moves to his regular seat. Christopher is an asshole. Monty regrets sleeping with him. Twice.

Christopher just swings around in his seat to look at him. “You had a good time last week, didn’t you?”

“No complaints,” Monty replies. He fishes around in his bag for a pen. He’s fairly sure he brought a pen.

Christopher leans over and drops a copy of The Sun onto Monty’s desk. “I don’t see how you keep making news with this trash, you’re hardly interesting.”

Monty goes cold all over. The paper is already open to the correct page, not a cover story, thank god, but it’s unmistakably him. At the Opera House. Some photographer had captured the moment where he pulled Percy into his lap and kissed him, and the picture makes it look absolutely filthy.

There is a swatch of skin exposed where Monty’s hand has rucked up Percy’s shirt, and the camera had gone off at the exact moment where their lips were parted, giving the entire thing a tawdry, lewd look.

It wasn’t like that, Monty wants to scream. It was good. It was something he had taken for himself, something he had felt proud of. Proud and pleased and so joyful in that moment, to be kissing Percy and to be kissed by Percy, in full eyes of the world and God. And the local press pool, it would seem.

The only good thing about is that the lighting and the way that Monty had been angled makes it impossible to tell that it’s Percy in the picture. It could be anyone.

Monty is suddenly, horribly aware that every single person in the class is looking at him. He holds the paper up, because he knows that everyone has seen it already. “What do you think?” he asks, forcing a smile. “Did they catch my good side?”

A few people laugh. Someone whistles. Christopher scowls, clearly disappointed by Monty’s reaction. Fuck him.

“So,” Samaira leans over Monty’s desk, “who’s your partner? The paper only says ‘an unnamed gentleman.’” She taps the photo with one elegant nail.

“Just someone I met at the show,” Monty says. “I didn’t catch a name.” The lie feels bitter in his mouth. He’s been lying for what feels like his entire life, but never like this. He’s never had to cut Percy out of his life before. Never had to pretend as though Percy didn’t comprise the heart and soul of him.

Samaira laughs. “Monty, you slut!” She slaps his arm, playfully.

Monty dredges up a smile from somewhere. “I do my best.”

Thank god, he doesn’t actually have to keep talking because their professor enters the room. Pascal is usually a laid back teacher, insisting that they drop calling him Professor and letting them get away with more chatter than Monty ever had as a child, but today he’s calling for order before he’s even reached the front dais.

Monty follows the lecture in something of a daze. His mind keeps wandering back to the photo, the paper. Will his father have seen it by now? Will Percy? Monty doesn’t know which is worse.

“Monty, can I see you upfront?” Pascal calls after the class ends. A few of the other students make a low ooooh noise under their breath. Christopher bumps Monty’s shoulder with his, muttering, “Probably wants a blowie for proper marks.”

As if Monty’s marks need it.

Still, he approaches Pascal’s desk with some level of trepidation. “Yes?”

“Sit down,” Pascal gestures for Monty to take a seat by his desk. Monty does, feeling anxious. “No need to look so worried,” Pascal says. “I only want to talk.”

Monty has had plenty of just talking conversations that have still gone terribly for him, so he waits for Pascal to continue.

“Monty.” Pascal leans forward on his desk. “Is everything alright with you?”

“Everything is just grand,” Monty lies. “Why do you ask.”

“I know that you all think that we professors are out of touch,” Pascal says. “That we only follow the news of queen and country,” oh God, “but I have picked up a paper in the last three months.”

Monty feels humiliation swamp over him. He likes Pascal. He respects him. He wants to be respected by him. That he may have seen—that he could have watched. It’s beyond consideration.

Pascal must read something in his face. “I didn’t read any of the stories. Or,” he hesitates, the two of them on the precipice of dangerous territory, “anything else. I only saw that they existed. I happened to notice that a new story was out this morning.”

“Yes,” Monty says tightly, when Pascal pauses.

“And I’m asking. Are you alright?”

Monty considers his options. “I’m fine, professor.” He rarely calls Pascal professor, but he desperately wants this conversation to be over.

Pascal gives him a searching look. “Alright. If you say so.”

“I do.”

Pascal reaches out to clasp Monty’s shoulder, and Monty flinches back before he can stop himself. Pascal freezes. For a moment, they just stare at one another. Then, slowly, Pascal retracts his hand. Monty can feel a flush climbing up the back of his neck.

“Well,” Pascal clears his throat. “I’m always here, if you ever need to talk.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Monty says. “Can I,” he hooks a thumb at the door, and when Pascal nods, he practically flees.

 

* * *

 

His dorm room is a wonderful, blessed safe-haven. He all but collapses down onto his bed, hyper-aware of the sheets up his skin, of the press of his pillow, of the sound of the electric fan he has going in the corner.

He just lays there for what feels like minutes and hours and seconds and years. Time slips by and he doesn’t feel a part of any of it. When the tape had come out, it hadn’t felt like this. It had been almost funny. This doesn’t feel funny.

He hears someone knocking and ignores it.

“Monty?”

It’s Percy. Of course it is.

“Monty, I know you’re in there!” Percy is a liar. There is no way to know where Monty is. He is unknowable, an enigma. A ghost.

“Monty, I’m coming in!”

Monty hears the scrape of a key in the lock. When did Percy get a key?

He pulls himself upright, straightens his hair. “Go away!” he shouts, but even as he says it, he knows that it’s pointless. The door swings open, and Percy is staring at him. His chest is heaving, his hair is in disarray. It’s a good look on him.

“Monty.” Percy just looks at him for a moment.

Monty quirks a brow. “Percy.” Then, mostly to be an asshole, he looks to the dog at Percy’s side. “Malory.”

Percy rolls his eyes. “I came as soon I saw.”

“Oh. You’ve seen it.”

“The entire school has seen it, honestly, Monty. A girl in my ethics class asked if I had your phone number.”

“Did you give it to her?”

Percy scowls. “I did not. If she wants it so bad she can ask you herself.”

Monty watches his own hands as he plays with the hem of his shirt sleeve. “Right.” Then, “I’m so sorry.”

“What for?”

Monty forces his hands still, clenches them tight together. If Percy is here to yell at him, he doesn’t think he can bear it. “I know you didn’t want to be in the papers. I know it was the last thing that you— and now it’s in the bloody Sun.”

Percy sits next to Monty, almost in his space. “I don’t care about that.”

“Uh, no, you made it pretty fucking clear that—”

“Monty.” Percy reaches out and puts his hands over Monty’s, stopping the nervous play of his fingers. “I promise, I’m not mad.”

“No?” Monty can’t look away from their hands, the contrast in their coloring. He could turn his hand over and interlace their fingers. He doesn’t.

“I mean, it’s not ideal, obviously.” Percy gives a small laugh. Obviously. “But you can’t even tell it’s me anyway.”

Right. Of course. As long as no one know about them. Monty pulls out from under Percy’s touch. He doesn’t dare reach for the key around his neck, but if he closes his eyes he can focus on its weight, the press of it against his skin.

He can hear Percy hesitate, hear the breath he draws in. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Percy, I’m great. I’m just loving this,” he snaps.

Percy doesn’t rise to the bait. When Monty turns his head to look at him, Percy is just watching him, patient.

Monty sighs. “You know, you’re the second person to ask me that today?”

“Oh?”

“Pascal asked, if you can believe that.”

Percy, who had Pascal last semester, makes a thoughtful noise. “I can, actually.”

“I’m fine,” Monty says.

“Hm,” Percy says.

“I am!”

“So, you’re not going to go out and do something stupid?” Percy asks skeptically.

Monty bristle. He honestly hadn’t planned on it, but something about the tone in Percy’s voice is making him reconsider. “I was planning to go out and get well and truly pissed.”

Percy scowls. It’s weird that it’s this, and not Monty lashing out, which seems to truly upset him. “Isn’t that what got you into this mess to begin with?”

“No, it was that fact that the bloody papers can’t keep their cameras to themselves,” Monty snaps. “Other people are allowed to pull, why can’t I?”

Percy’s face twists. “A pull?”

“Or whatever!” Monty throws his hands into the air. “I’m not trying to argue terminology with you.”

“Right.” Percy runs a hand through his hair. “Right. So you’re going to go out and, what? Get your face in the paper with some other boy?”

“Or girl, Percy, don’t be so limited.”

Percy makes a rude noise. “Have you heard from your father?”

“On second thought,” Monty says. “I’d rather argue terminology.”

Percy winces. “That bad?”

Monty pulls out his phone, unlocks it and holds it out. Percy takes it with the air of one holding a live grenade.

“What am I looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Percy’s brow wrinkles in confusion.

“Not a word.” Monty drops back onto the bed. “I know he’s seen it by now. I swear, he has a member of his staff whose only job is to scour the media for news of yours truly.”

“Sounds like a full time job to me,” Percy says. And then, at the look on Monty’s face, “Sorry.”

Monty waves it away. “No, it’s—you’re not wrong.”

“But, that’s good right? No news is good news?”

Monty feels a desperate laugh curl up his throat. “There is a good chance that he’s working on the paperwork to disinherit me as we speak. Just because the paparazzi didn’t recognize you, doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

Percy sucks in a breath. “Does that—would that make a difference? It being me?”

Monty tilts his head on the pillow, and he can’t bear one more second of that look on Percy’s face. “Honestly, I doubt it. He’d say you were too good for me. You know, if he weren’t also a homophobic shit head.”

Percy licks his lips. “Is it likely, that he’s going to disinherit you?”

“I’m not sure. He’s threatened it before.”

Monty can tell, from the way that Percy draws in a breath, from the way his mouth twists, that his next sentence will start with ‘no offense, but’

“No offense,” Percy begins, and he’s already softening the blow with a hand on Monty’s knee, “but this is far from the worst thing you’ve done.”

“The thing about the straw that breaks the camel’s back,” Monty says, “is that it’s still just a fucking straw.”

“Monty—”

“Trust me. The longer he waits to call, the worse it’s going to be.”

Which, of course, it when Monty’s phone begins to ring. Percy looks down at it, still in his hand. “It’s your father.”

“Yeah,” Monty almost wants to laugh. “I figured.”

“Would you like me to stay?” Percy asks softly.

“Yes,” Monty replies. “Please.”

He answers the phone.

 

* * *

 

It’s been years since Monty cried in front of his father. It was always worse when he cried, and now any time his hears that Tone in his father’s voice, something inside him ices over. It’s part of what had driven him to Eleftheria that first time, the driving need to feel something, anything.

Something other than cold and distant.

Now, listening to his father yell, listening to what his father is saying, Monty can feel that ice creep under his skin, like the words themselves are a blizzard inside of him.

Then, he feels a hand on his. Percy is looking at him with tender concern, his face open. And suddenly, abruptly, it’s like Monty’s father can’t hurt him.

It’s like being by a warm fire, watching snowflakes melt on the window outside. He hears the words his father is saying, hears him talk about disgrace and shame to the family, and one last chance, and it doesn’t matter.

For the first time in almost 10 years, when the conversation ends, Monty still feels like himself, still feels as put together as he did when he first started talking to his father.

It doesn’t matter, in this moment, that Percy doesn’t want him, that Percy will probably never want him. Because Percy is here for him, and will probably always be here for him.

Percy is his best friend and Monty wouldn’t trade that, not for anything. It’s not all or nothing, because as long as Percy is in his life, with his sweet smiles and his kind touches and his stupid jokes, nothing else matters.

Percy is enough.

 

* * *

 

Felicity’s call comes in mid-day on Tuesday, and Monty knows that he shouldn't be surprised, but he is. He picks up with a sense of trepidation, because he may love and adore his sister more now with half a country between them, but she can still be a brat.

“So,” Felicity's voice is teasing, and Monty already knows that he’s going to hate whatever she says next. “I thought that you and Percy weren’t dating?”

“We’re not.” Monty’s voice comes out choked despite his best efforts.

“Yeah, pull the other one. We get The Sun up at Oxford you know.”

“Really, Felicity. We were, something. Not dating.”

“Something where you kissed at opera houses?”

“I kissed him.”

Felicity makes a rude noise. “Well, obviously.”

“What is that supposed to mean!”

“That Percy is far too much of a gentleman to kiss you at the opera. That, and he’d be more interested in the show. No offense.”

“Offense very much taken! I’m more attractive than 100 year old men playing 500 year old music.”

“Not to Percy,” Felicity chimes delightedly.

Except that he had been. Execpt that Percy had been at a show he’d clearly loved, and he’d still touched Monty, had touched him in time with the music until Monty had fallen apart in his hands.

“It doesn’t matter,” Monty says. “We’re done with that too.”

“Is this the same thing as over the summer? Your stupid friends-with-benefits-with-feelings thing?”

“If by that you mean my unrequited pining for Percy while he refused to even kiss me then yeah, that thing.”

Felicity draws in a sharp breath. “Seriously?”

“Was I seriously pining for him? Yes, obviously.”

“No. Monty, did he really refuse to kiss you?”

Monty debates the merits of suffocating himself with a pillow. “Yeah.”

“That’s really shit, Monty.” There is a long pause, and Monty can practically hear her drawing out the timeline in her mind. “Was that your first kiss, in the paper?”

“No. We—the first time. I kissed him.”

“And he, what? Said ‘Don’t do that again, let’s have sex?’”

Monty’s laugh comes out rough and broken. “Yes, pretty much.”

“That’s really awful. I never thought I would say this, especially about Percy, but you deserve better, Monty.”

“I don’t though.” He turns his face into the pillow and tries not to cry. He can think of few things more mortifying than crying over a broken heart on the phone to his younger sister.

“Monty,” Felicity trails off, her voice heavy with sympathy. “Have you tried talking to him about this?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“He dumped me.”

There is a clatter that sounds a lot like Felicity dropping her phone, then a brief scramble. “He what?”

“He called it off. Told me to find some other sucker to fuck me for awhile.”

“He did not.”

“Not in those words,” Monty admits. “But, yeah. That was the gist.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, bully for you,” Monty snaps.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then, hesitantly, Felicity says, “I’m sorry. I do believe you. It just surprises me, that’s all. Percy always looks at you like—”

“Yeah.” He can’t bear to hear how Felicity thinks that Percy looks at him. “I thought so too. I was actually asking him if he wanted to—if this thing could be something real. If we could, you know. Date.”

Felicity is silent.

“In secret, obviously.” Monty hastens to add. “I mean, I know he’d hate, you know, having his face in the papers all the time, being seen with me. We wouldn’t have had to tell anyone. But I still wanted,” his throat closes up, and he’s glad that it stops the tide of words. He doesn’t want to Felicity to hear them.

“I’ll kill him,” Felicity says, and her tone is perfectly matter-a-fact. “I’m going to murder him.”

Monty is so surprised that he can only take his phone away from his ear and stare at it. “What?”

“I’m coming there, and I’m going to murder him. Painfully. You don’t deserve that shit, Monty.”

“No, c’mon. You know me, Felicity. I’m a disaster. I don’t blame him.”

Felicity breathes out a long sigh. “Yeah, you’re kind of a mess. But that doesn’t mean that you don’t deserve to be happy, Monty.”

Monty doesn’t have a reply to that.

Felicity barrels on. “And if literally all you want is the privilege of being Percy Newton’s dirty little secret and he just, he couldn’t even—”

“It’s not like that!” Monty protests. “He doesn’t owe me anything. Just because I- he doesn’t have to do anything. I knew that it wasn’t—I knew I was more invested. None of this is a surprise, Felicity. ”

“Oh, Monty.” Felicity sounds so heartbreakingly sad in that moment, and Monty can’t for the life of him imagine why. “That’s part of the problem.”

“I don’t follow.”

“I know.”

Monty clears his throat. “Well, this has been strange and cryptic. Tell me about Oxford. Have you met any cute boys? Or cute girls.”

Felicity makes a rude noise. “Who has time for dating? There’s so much to learn here! And don’t change the subject. Repeat after me: I, Monty, deserve to be happy.”

“C’mon, Felicity—”

“Repeat it. I, Monty, deserve to be happy.”

“I, Monty, deserve to be happy,” Monty rushes the words out, feeling mortified. But also, just a little bit, pleased.

“I heard you rolling your eyes,” Felicity says. “But I’ll take it. Sit back and let me tell you about everything you’re missing out on at your second-rate university.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the week passes quickly. Monty dodges lewd comments about the photos from the Opera. On Wednesday, he musters the courage to stretch out on Percy’s bed while they do their homework and it’s only about 10% weird. The students on campus have gone back to treating him like a pseudo-celebrity, there for teasing and pick-up lines. Monty is expecting the show on Friday to be more of the same.

Instead, he only gets about two calls about the photos before he picks up and the man on other line is shy, hesitant.

“Hi. I just wanted to, I heard you talking to that girl last week? And I wanted to ask—so you were really helpful for her. And no offense, but you seem like you really know shit. Like, I’ve seen you in the papers and you seem like you get around. Again, no offense.”

“None taken,” Monty replies because he supposes at this point that’s more of an objective fact than anything else. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”

“Oh! Um. So, my girlfriend did something pretty shitty recently. I mean, not like, selling photos to the papers shitty, but still, shitty. And now she’s coming back and apologizing. And I want to forgive her, I love her but also. I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Whooo boy,” Monty breathes out a long breath. “I mean, I’m not entirely sure I’m the right voice on this. Most of what goes in and out of the papers hasn’t been what anyone could call a relationship. But hell, you’re here, I’m here. Let’s give it a shot.”

The other boy gives a weak, watery sounding laugh. Monty taps his pencil on his desk.

“I mean, it depends on a few things. I don’t know you, and I don’t know your relationship. There are people in my life who could stab me and I would forgive them for it, because I know them well enough to know that their reasons were probably good and, honestly, I probably deserved it,” another laugh. “But other people I’ve known, once that trust is broken, can you really move forward with them, you know?”

“Yeah.” There is the sound of someone clearing their throat.

“So, the question I would ask is, can you move past it? Because even if you love them, if you can’t trust them—if this will always be hanging over the two of you? That’s it. Love is great and all, but trust is what matters.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear, or if that wasn’t very helpful, but, I don’t know. That’s what I think.”

“No, that was, that was helpful. Thank you.”

“Anytime. Good luck.”

He ends the call, hoping to God that he didn’t just fuck up someone’s life beyond repair.

From there, the rest of the night goes smoothly. He gets another caller asking for advice on coming out, which seems like a weird way to do it, on a radio show that anyone could hear but he does the best he can to be helpful, and then a third caller who, thank god, only wants to know the best pub near campus.

When Sonia shows up for her own show, Monty jumps. He hadn’t noticed that time was passing so quickly. He signs off awkwardly, and, to his own surprise, invites anyone to call back again next week.

He signals Sonia to start and steps out into the hall. To his vast surprise, Sinjon is stretched against the wall, charmingly posed like something out of a vintage pinup. He has one foot propped up on the wall, his head tilted back. All he’s missing is a cigarette and a leather jacket.

“Oh.” Monty says. “Have you been here this entire time?” Not his best work.

“I was waiting for you,” Sinjon replies, voice lowered flirtatiously.

“Like that?” Monty’s show is two hours long.

Sinjon drops his leg with a laugh. “No. I was doing chemistry homework until I saw Sonia come in. I thought this would be more fetching.”

“It certainly was, at that.”

Sinjon winks. “So, would it be too much of cliche to ask if you wanted to come back to mine for some tea?”

Monty feels a smile start to break out over his face. Sinjon isn’t Percy, but he is lovely and charming and, in this moment, interested in Monty.

“It’s a bit cliche, but I think you have to looks to pull it off,” he replies.

“Yeah? Do I have the looks to pull you off?” Sinjon asks.

Monty winces. “You know, I think you may have just utterly destroyed your chances there.”

“Even as I said it, I knew it was too much. I really hope you can forgive me.”

“I don’t know.” Monty starts walking down the hall, utterly confident that Sinjon will follow him. It’s something he hasn’t felt in some time. “You’ll have to persuade me.”

Sinjon grabs his elbow and turns him around, backing Monty into the wall in the same smooth motion. “I think I can manage that.” He tilts Monty’s face up for a kiss.

It’s a good kiss, as such things go. Sinjon knows the right angles, the correct place to put his hands. He clearly knows what he’s doing.

It pales in comparison to the kiss Monty had shared with Percy.

Monty pushes that thought away. It makes no difference what he had shared with Percy. It’s not going to happen again. Percy doesn’t want him. Sinjon does.

Monty pulls himself free of the kiss. “So, about that tea?”

 

* * *

 

Sinjon lives off campus, like a proper senior. They go through the door to his apartment already kissing, and Monty tries to block out the thought of everything else. Sinjon has his hands in Monty’s back pockets. Monty is clutching tight to Sinjon’s blazer.

He feels, in that moment, utterly desired.

Sinjon guides them to the bedroom, and his hands move from Monty’s pockets to his shirt. He starts the lower buttons and works his way up, unbuttoning each button with a careful slowness. Monty’s chest feels cold when the shirt comes open, and he is suddenly, achingly, aware of the weight of the key against his chest.

Monty breaks away. “I can’t,” he says with a gasp, and it’s as much a surprise to him as it is to Sinjon. “I can’t, I’m sorry.” Then, to his immense horror, he bursts into tears.

To Monty’s further surprise, Sinjon immediately takes his hands off of Monty and takes a step back. Not that Monty had expected him to force the issue, but he would have been well within his rights to be frustrated. Instead he just looks concerned.

“Are you alright?” Sinjon asks awkwardly.

Monty tries desperately to get himself under control. “Yeah. Yes. I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

“Right. Which is why you’re crying in my living room.”

“I’m not crying!”

Sinjon sighs. “Right. I’m going to go make that tea now.”

By the time he’s returned, Monty has at least managed to stop crying, and Sinjon passes him the cup.

Monty takes it gratefully. “I’m really sorry about that.”

Sinjon sits on the couch and indicates that Monty should do the same. “It’s fine. I mean, kind of an ego killer, but fine.”

Monty winces. “Sorry.”

“Is this about that Newton chap? From the papers?”

Monty goes utterly, perfectly still. “What?”

“That other kid you’re always with. That was him in The Sun, right?”

Monty almost upsets his tea when he says. “Sinjon, you can’t tell anyone.”

“I—what?”

“No one, I mean, the paper doesn’t know who was in the photo. It would—Percy would—you can’t tell anyone!”

“I won’t.” Sinjon puts his own cup down and then carefully takes Monty’s and sets it aside as well. He takes Monty’s hands in his. “Seriously. I won’t. Though, you’ve got to know that at least half the school will know that it’s him. You’re always together.”

“Shit.” Monty tugs his hands free and puts his head in them. “Fuck.”

Sinjon pats him awkwardly on the back. “I don’t think anyone will say anything. I mean, honestly, I don’t think it will occur to anyone that it was a big deal. I didn’t even think you two were—”

“We’re not.”

“Ah.” There is a wealth of understanding in that noise. Monty turns his face away from Sinjon’s suddenly knowing face.

Sinjon doesn’t press.

“Well, it’s dark now. Sleep on the couch for the night.”

Monty thinks about protesting. Then he thinks about the walk back to the dorms at this hour. “Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

Monty has faced some awkward morning afters in his time, but never one quite like this. Sinjon offers him another cup of tea. Monty takes it. They sit in utter silence on Sinjon’s couch.

“You know, last year I would have taken you up on last night in a blink,” Monty says ruefully.

Sinjon sighs. “I suppose that makes me feel a little better.”

“I mean, you’re gorgeous, don’t get me wrong,” Monty says, well aware that he is only digging himself deeper.

“Well, thank you for that,” Sinjon laughs. “But let me guess, you’re past all this casual nonsense now that you’re in love?”

Monty stares into his tea. “I’m not sure about that. I mean. I don’t know what I want. Ever since that first article in the Sun.”

“Ah,” Sinjon says, and there is that same wealth of knowledge in his tone as there had been last night. “I suppose that does make it hard to trust in the kindness of strangers.”

“Exactly. And even though Percy—even though that’s not an option. I’m still not ready to—”

“Monty,” Sinjon puts a hand on Monty’s knee. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Monty reaches up and fiddles with the key around his neck. “I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“A year ago you wouldn’t have cared.”

“A year ago it wouldn’t have been an issue,” Monty replies.

“You’ve changed, Monty.” Sinjon tightens his grip on Monty’s knee for a brief second, then lets go. “And I think I want to get to know the new you.”

“Not the old me?” Monty asks, and his tone is joking, but there is something tender waiting for the answer. Sinjon, to his credit, thinks it over.

“I wanted to sleep with the old you. But I think I’d like to be friends with the new you.”

Monty feels a smile bloom over his face. “I’d like that.” He doesn’t have many friends. He could probably do with more.

“Friends, then.” Sinjon extends a hand.

Monty shakes it. “Friends.”

 

* * *

 

That night, Percy and Monty end up back at the pub. Monty doesn’t trust himself to be drunk around Percy right now, so for the first time in his life, he doesn’t order a drink. Percy raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t comment.

“We can leave, if you want,” Percy says. The noise in the pub means he has to lean in close to say it, and the combination, Percy’s breath on his ear, Percy’s words, the subtle smell of him, makes Monty think, just for a second, that Percy means Leave.

Then he shakes himself out of it and leans away. “Nah. We haven’t played billiards in ages.”

Something flashes across Percy face, too quick to name. “You’re rubbish at billiards.”

“How dare you, sir.” Monty racks up the balls. “I demand trial by combat.”

Percy rolls his eyes, but hands Monty one of the cues off the wall. “First shot?” he offers.

Monty takes position. He’s not posing for anyone, not trying to make his shots attractive, not trying to do anything but have a good time with his best friend, to reclaim what he’s scared they’ve lost, and when he breaks he actually manages to sink a ball.

“Ha!” He give Percy a triumphant smile. Percy mimes a sarcastic golf clap.

“Where were you this morning?” Percy asks as Monty lines up his next shot. “The dining hall had waffles, I came by to get you.”

Monty, focused on lining the next shot—he’s pretty sure he can bounce the three off the seven and get them both in—answers distractedly. “I was still with Sinjon.”

“Still?” Percy asks.

“I spent the night,” Monty says, and shoots. He misses the seven entirely on the ricochet, but the three goes in and he lines up another shot. He scratches that one entirely, and steps back to let Percy take his turn.

Percy’s back is tense, and his shot hits with more force than usual. Monty is no real judge, but it looks like the four goes in by pure chance, ricocheting off a corner and two other balls before going it.

“How were the waffles?” he asks awkwardly.

“What?”

“The waffles? For breakfast.”

“I ended up skipping. It’s not as fun with—by myself.” His next shot goes in as well.

“Next time, you can text me.”

“Right. Yeah. Next time.” Percy’s shot scratches.

 

* * *

 

To Monty’s everlasting surprise, being friends with Sinjon is not terrible. He has had very few friends in his life, and his relationship with Percy has been complicated ever since Monty realized he was in love almost five years ago. It’s nice, to have a relationship that can just be simple, with no expectations or desires weighing it down.

It’s Tuesday, which means that Percy will be occupied with his violin practice for a few hours, so when Sinjon asks if he wants to get a coffee and do homework, Monty agrees. When they aren’t occupied in mutual flirting, Sinjon can be surprisingly funny.

They both still flirt, but it’s playful, kidding. There is no intent behind it.

“So, anyway, I’m standing there, pantless,” Monty is saying, “she’s topless—and her dad comes in. I swear, my entire life flashed before my eyes. And, well, I had nothing to lose at this point, so I take off my blazer. The school blazer, mind you, and I gently place it over her. Because honestly, this is her dad, right? It’s got to be worse for her. So then I book it.”

“Pantless?” Sinjon asks, almost crying with laughter.

“Completely and utterly.”

“You make my high school years look tame by comparison.”

Monty gives his hand a sympathetic pat. “I’m sure you had your share of scandals, a pretty boy like you.”

“Well, I never ran anywhere pantless, that’s for sure.”

“I probably shouldn’t tell you about the time I ran through the gardens of a Duchy completely starkers then.”

“Please tell me it was your own Duchy.”

“It emphatically was not.”

As Sinjon laughs, Monty lets his gaze trail over the shop, and is startled to see Percy standing at the register. He’s watching them, and his face is cold and closed off. Monty raises a hand to wave, and Percy turns away.

Right. Okay then.

“Ah,” Sinjon says, following his gaze. “The elusive Mr. Newton.”

Monty shushes him, afraid that Percy will overhear.

But Percy doesn’t turn back to them as he collects his drink and leaves.

“He’s in a bit of a mood, isn’t he?” Sinjon says, leaning his chin on his hand.

Monty frowns after Percy’s back. “Yeah…” He shakes his head, and realizes that he’s started fiddling with the key again. “He probably just got back from practice. He gets really focused, and sometimes it takes him some time to shake out of it.”

Sinjon’s grin widens. “Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”

 

* * *

 

Percy begs off their usual Wednesday study session which is…fine. It’s all fine.

 

* * *

 

By Friday, he still hasn’t heard from Percy, but he doesn’t dwell on it. Thursday is another practice day for Percy, Percy isn’t obligated to spend every second with him.

He gets to the station a bit early this time, exchanges some meaningless small talk with Sinjon once Sinjon’s own show is over.

“Ready to dispense more wisdom to the masses?” Sinjon asks as Monty gets ready to go on.

Monty rolls his eyes. “I don’t know about wisdom. Salacious advice, maybe.”

“Sorry, Monty, but it’s wisdom. You’re like a hot Gandalf.”

Monty almost chokes on his spit, and Sinjon winks.

The show starts as Monty has become accustomed to. He plays a few songs, offers some advice to some freshman in bad relationships and baffled suggestions to people in good relationships. He’s not sure how or when his show turned into a talk show, but maybe Sinjon is right. Maybe he is a hot Gandalf.

As songs play between calls, he checks his phone. Nothing from Percy. But then, maybe Monty expects too much. Maybe he always expects too much.

He shoots off a text to Percy, ‘hope your night is great ;)’ and tucks his phone back into his pocket.

The final calls in at 11:45, when Monty has pretty much called it a night in his head and isn’t expecting more than a few drunk callers.

“Hello, Monty’s words of wisdom, how can I improve your life?” he answers, overly jovial.

“Hey, man. I like your show.”

“Thank you. I like that you like it. What’s up?” he should probably make his show more formal or something, if he really is going to end up giving people advice on a consistent basis.

“I know you don’t usually talk about romance stuff on here, but I guess I don’t have anyone to ask.” The caller, male, probably not a first year by his tone, laughs ruefully. “Pathetic, right?” Monty can relate.

“No, it’s fine. Sometimes it’s easier with strangers.” Monty winces at his own choice of words, but the caller doesn’t jump on it. Instead, he sighs, long and staticy through the phone line.

“I am just, madly in love with this girl,” he says. “She’s just, she’s everything. I love her laugh, the way that she wrinkles her nose. I love that she is always forgetting her hairties and has to use a pencil to her hair up. I just, I really love her.”

Yeah. Monty can relate to that as well.

“That’s really great,” Monty says. “She sounds worthy of your love. And not that I don’t like hearing this, I do, but is there a question here.”

“She doesn’t know I exist. Well. That’s not fair. We’re friends. But she doesn’t see me like that, and I think it’s killing me.” The caller laughs again. “I know it’s not, running from the paparazzi or getting revenge on a cheating ex, but just—I don’t know what to do anymore.”

God. There is no way Monty is admitting on the air that he is the literal last person in the world to give advice on the subject.

But then. He could have used some advice of his own. He could still use some advice. He knows what it’s like, to have that gaping place that you desperately want another person to fill.

“So, you have two option here. You tell her, and even if she doesn’t feel the same, you have your answer. Or, you keep it secret and let it kill you. I don’t recommend that, by the way. I know what you’re thinking. Telling her is terrifying. It’s the scariest thing you can imagine. What if she doesn’t feel the same. What if she wants to end the friendship. What if you ruin everything.”

Monty takes a deep breath, lets the words go through him, from somewhere deep. “If she’s as amazing as you say, she won’t end the friendship. If you tell her, she knows. And that’s, god, it’s fucking scary. But if you don’t, if you hide from it. That really could ruin this. And who knows. She might feel the same. She might not. But living with the possibility? It can turn against you. You tear yourself apart on every word, every other person she looks at. It festers.

“Love is- it’s hard and sometimes it sucks. Sometimes it hurts, it tears out gaping holes and you think you’ll never get past it. But if you love her, and I mean, really, truly love her. Then she is enough.

“Just, having her in your life is enough. Watching her smile, hearing her laugh. Waking up each day and even though she isn’t beside you, knowing that you still get to see her. That becomes enough.” Monty is moving the key back and forth on it’s chain. Not nervously, not twisting it, but feeling its weight, the familiar curves of the teeth. “So. Yeah. That’s my advice. Take the chance. Jump. Even if she doesn’t catch you, she’ll probably still help you get up and put yourself back together.”

 

* * *

 

A part of Monty, a part of him he’d hoped that he had buried by now, is hoping that Percy will be waiting for him when he gets back to his room. That Percy will be sitting there, on his bed, and say that he heard the show, and he hadn’t realized how much Monty loved him. That he, Percy, has realized how much he loves Monty is return.

He had been telling the utter truth. Percy is enough. Just this. Just as they are, it’s enough. He had no ulterior motives, nothing beyond helping the caller and letting the words spill out of him.

But still. He hopes. He had splayed himself open on air, and though maybe no one else would get it, Percy should have heard himself in every word Monty spoke and—and Monty hopes.

He turns the key in the lock. He turns on the light.

His room is empty, cold.

Monty lets out the breath he was holding and slowly, tiredly, gets ready for bed.

 

* * *

 

Monty thinks about getting breakfast with Percy, but he is still feeling a little raw so he heads down to the lawn to get some reading done. He suspects that his professors won’t take ‘abject humiliation’ as a reason to be late on his school work.

One of the curses of Monty’s life is that the press never seems to catch pictures of him doing any sort of meaningful studying. Which is why he is so surprised when a particularly lovely woman approaches him with a tell-tale camera around her neck.

“Don’t worry,” she says when Monty flinches away. “I’m not here to catch your sordid academic dealings.”

Monty looks down at his Philosophy of Law textbook. “Perhaps you should. It might improve my public image. Here, I’ll pose for you.” He holds the book up so that the title can be seen while still catching his face in frame. “Henry Montague IV Spotted Having A Life Outside His Scandalous Sexual Shenanigans.”

The woman doesn’t reach for her camera. Instead, she hold out her hand. “I’m Helena Robles.” When Monty doesn’t reach out to shake her hand, she lets it fall. “I was the one who—”

“The one who took the picture at the Opera house,” Monty cuts her off. Her eyes widen, and he smiles coldly. “I know I don’t look all that bright, but I can read a photo credit.”

“I wasn’t following you, if that helps. I just happen to enjoy the opera.”

“And when you spotted me, you just had to take a photo?”

Helena reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Monty. He declines. She lights and it and slips the lighter back into her pocket.

“I didn’t tell them the name of your friend, you know. Your Percy Newton.”

Monty goes cold all over. “Is this blackmail? Because if it is—” he trails off. Because if it is, nothing. He’ll pay it. He’ll pay any amount of money to keep Percy’s name out of the papers.

Helena waves him off. “Down boy. I’m not threatening your lover boy.”

“Then what?”

“Did you know that I’m a local?” she asks.

“Uh. No?”

“I’ve seen you at the pubs a few times. And, of course, I saw the news on you this summer. So I didn’t think it was such a big deal, to see you at the opera house. Just another casual fuck for Lord Montague.”

Monty flinches at hearing Percy referred to like that, and Helena’s sharp eyes catch the motion.

“Did you know that the St. Andrews radio station goes to most of the surrounding area?” she asks mildly.

Monty shakes his head, taken aback by the non sequitur.

“There isn’t all that much in the way of good radio out here, so I listen to it every now and then. Beats current politics anyway.” She flicks ash off the end of her cigarette. “Your show is good, you know. Especially recently.”

“You mean the part where I spill my guts out to the entire university and surrounding towns?” Monty asks bitterly.

“Yeah, actually. Your advice is good. People listen to you. You’ve got the charisma for it.” She gives him a long look. “I misjudged you.”

Monty shrugs, and the motion draws his shoulders up by his ears, defensive. “You probably didn’t.”

Helena ignores him. “I also didn’t realize it was a proper date. I didn’t think you were someone who dated, when I took the pictures, and I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m not. We weren’t. We’re not dating,” he sputters out, and he’s said those words so often in the last few months, he would think that they would stop tearing up his throat on the way out.

“Oh.” She takes another drag on her cigarette. “Well, if my photos played any part in that, then I’m truly sorry about that. I can tell you care about him.”

God, is it so obvious? “He doesn’t feel the same. Your photos had nothing to—it ended it before the article came out.”

“Hm.” Helena looks at him. “You know, I really just came over here to apologize. But I think I might have something that could interest you.”

She reaches into her messenger back and pulls out an envelope. “Before you start harping about blackmail again, these are the only copies.” She sighs. “I should have known I was wrong about you as soon as these were done developing, but it’s hard to change an opinion once it’s been formed, you know.”

She hands him the envelope, and his fingers close over it on reflex. She doesn’t let go. “Don’t let that stop you,” she says, holding his gaze. “Your first impression isn’t always the right one.”

Helena lets the envelope go and flicks the end of her cigarette into the grass. When she stands, she steps on it to put it out. “If you ever want to do an interview, call me. My card’s in there.” She nods at the envelope and heads out.

Monty watches her go, then turns his gaze to the envelope in his hands. It’s fairly light, and considerably more interesting than his textbook.

He tips it open and over a dozen photos fall into his lap. His breath catches in his throat when he sees the familiar architecture of the opera house. For a second, he wants to get up and chase her down, humiliation and anger burning in his throat at the invasion of his privacy.

Then he looks at the first one, and humiliation wells up in him for an entirely different reason. He sees now, why she had been so sure that he loved Percy. The photo is from before the kiss. Percy is watching the musicians. Monty is watching Percy, and it’s written all over his face.

God. He never thought he would be happy about that photo in The Sun, but now that he knows how much worse it could have been… This one is much less risque, but so much more telling. For one thing, Percy is almost impossible not to identify. And for another, the idea of the entire world seeing the depth of Monty’s feelings. It’s unbearable.

The next few photos are more of the same, Monty gazing at Percy with his heart in his eyes. Then a few of Percy still looking at the stage, and Monty’s head tipped back. Anger flares again, at the thought that Helena had seen this, this intimate and magical moment with Percy.

The next photo makes him stop. In the photo, his own face is tipped back, pleasure written across it. But Percy isn’t looking at the stage. He’s looking at Monty, and the look on his face is so—something. Monty doesn’t have words for it. He flips back. The picture of him looking at Percy. Forward. Percy looking at him. He lays the photos out next to one another.

It’s the same expression.

He looks through the rest of them. There are another half dozen around the kiss, some dirtier than the one that ran in the paper, some almost entirely innocent. He stops on one that has been zoomed in. His face is close to Percy’s, and he remembers the moment, his own eyes closed, savoring it. Savoring Percy’s hands on him, Percy’s lips against his.

Percy’s eyes are open and he looks at Monty like he’s everything. He looks at Monty like Monty has been looking at him for years.

Monty slides the photos back into the envelope and stands.

 

* * *

 

Monty stands outside of Percy’s room for what feels like an eternity, his hand poised like he’s about to knock. It’s absurd. He hasn’t knocked for Percy for over five years now.

He takes a deep breath and turns the handle.

Malory looks up at him when the door enters. Percy does not. He’s got headphones in, and Monty watches with charmed affection as Percy nods along to the music, running a highlighter over his notes. Monty sits down on the bed and scratches Malory behind the ears and for a moment he just watches.

Then, because Percy will be furious if he looks up and finds Monty watching him like an utter creeper, he waves his arms until the motion catches Percy’s attention. Percy startles, yanking the headphones from his ears.

“Monty!”

“Yes, darling?” Monty asks. He feels full of light and sunshine and pleasure. He can’t seem to stop smiling.

“How long have you been there?”

“Not too long. An hour or so?”

Percy’s face creases for a moment, then smoothes out. “Hilarious. How long, truly?”

Monty laughs, and the laugh comes so easily to his lips. “Only a few minutes. I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You could knock!”

“I could,” Monty acknowledges.

“And you call yourself a gentleman.”

Monty clutches his chest. “I never!”

Percy grins and shakes his head. “Why are you here?”

Monty feels his smile fade. “I didn’t know I needed a reason.”

“No! Of course you don’t. I only meant.” Percy frowns down at his notes. “I thought you would be out. With Sinjon or something.”

Monty rolls his eyes. “I don’t know what your obsession with Sinjon is, but I haven’t seen him in days.”

“Since you slept at his place.”

“We’ve gotten coffee since then. I know you saw us.” Then, off the way Percy’s mouth twists, “Why do you care?” The hope is building in his chest again, buoyed by the sudden realization that Percy is jealous. That Percy might care if Monty sleeps with other people.

“I don’t,” Percy says, and Monty can read the lie on his face.

“I don’t give a damn about Sinjon, Percy.”

Percy’s face creases into a scowl. “Don’t lie to me, Monty. I heard you on the radio last night.”

Monty flinches back. It’s like being punched. It’s like all the air leaving his body at once. “You heard? And this,” he hesitates, “this is your answer?”

“No,” Percy snaps. “My answer is that I don’t care. Do whatever you want, Monty.”

Monty has had actual broken ribs that hurt less than this. He’s been wrong. Percy won’t be there to catch him. Won’t even be there to help him get back up again.

“Ah.” He swallows. It’s been years since he’s cried in front of anyone, but he can feel tears building. “I’ll just. Go then.”

Percy turns away from him. “I’m sure Sinjon is waiting for you.”

It’s too much. “What the fuck does Sinjon have to do with any of this?” He’s genuinely angry now. He never could have expected this level of cruelty from Percy.

Percy is still facing away, but Monty sees his hands clench on the desk. “You’re in,” he has to stop, “in love with him, aren’t you?”

“With Sinjon?” Monty asks, incredulous to the point of fury. “Are you insane?”

“You slept with him, didn’t you?”

“Percy, I don’t mean to be driving this point, but I have slept with a lot of people. And I certainly wasn’t in love with all of them.”

“Just one?” Percy asks bitterly.

“Just one,” Monty agrees, and his voice is so, so soft. “I only slept there, you know. On his couch, even.”

Percy picks up his highlighter and turns back to his notes. “Oh?”

“I mean, he offered, don’t get me wrong—”

“How lovely for you,” Percy says.

“I didn’t want to sleep with him.” Monty draws in a breath. His heartbeat seems terribly loud. “He wasn’t you.”

Percy doesn’t even look up from his book. “I’m sorry that his knowledge of internet BDSM failed to impress you.”

“Dammit, Percy, you could at least look at me for this.” Monty’s hands are clenched in the sheets of Percy’s bed, the comforter wrinkling under his fingers. He can feel the blood rushing in his face.

Percy looks at him, and his expression is almost perfectly blank.

“We’re not sleeping together any more. You can fuck whomever you want, don’t let me stop you.”

“I don’t want to fuck anyone else.” His voice is shaking. It’s so terribly hard to say. He had told the caller to jump, and he’d thought he already had. He’d been wrong. This, right now—this is him throwing himself off a cliff and hoping that Percy will be there to catch him. “Just you.”

Percy’s face stays closed to him. “Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to play that game anymore.”

Monty feels like he’s choking on those words. Game. Like something trivial, something meaningless.

“Then why did you?” he asks. He reaches out with one hand until he feels Malory under his fingers. Her fur is soft and warm, and he takes comfort in it.

“Why did I— what?”

“Why did you,” he spits the word, “play, if it was so distasteful to you?”

Percy falters, and Monty feels on more solid ground.

“I— you needed it.”

“That’s awfully altruistic of you,” Monty says. He reaches up and touches the key through his shirt. “Would you do that for any of our friends?”

“We don’t have any other friends, Monty,” Percy says. His voice is leading towards humor at the old joke.

“Well, there is that,” Monty concedes. “Still, it’s awfully generous of you, to fuck someone when they’re having a hard time.”

“Why did you accept then?” Percy asks. “You could have anyone in the world why,” his voice breaks, “why me?”

Monty takes a deep breath. Another. He thinks of the photos. He thinks of what he wants. He thinks of the key around his neck, the one he’s kept so carefully hidden.

“Because, Percy, when someone offers you almost everything you ever wanted, you’d be an utter fool to refuse it.”

Percy’s face goes slack with surprise, and the same fear-withdrawal that Monty is so used to being on the other side of. “And what is it that you want, Monty?”

He’s trying for harsh, for aloof, and he’s missing entirely. Monty feels full to bursting with emotion, with fear and love and hope. How many times has Percy asked this of him? How many times has he failed to answer? It seems absurd, now. He’s always known what he wanted. The answer has never changed.

“You, Percy.”

And then, when Percy only stares at him, gawping like a spectator at a freak show, Monty’s words escape him in a panicked rush. “It’s always been you. And when you offered. I had to. And if someone offers you what you want most, even if,” he has to stop and swallow, pulling in air like he’s drowning, “even though it’s only partly what you want, even if it’s only halfway there, it would be stupid to, to…” he trails off.

Percy is still staring at him.

“Say something!” Monty snaps.

“Is that my key?” Percy asks. Monty looks down and finds that he’s been playing with it as he spoke, pulled it free of his shirt.

“It’s mine,” he says stupidly. “You gave it to me.”

Percy stands and moves close enough that Monty has to part his legs so that Percy can stand between them. He reaches out with careful fingers, and touches the key. Monty lets it go, and Percy just looks down at it.

“I searched everywhere for this,” Percy says. “I turned my entire place upside down.”

“Why?” He can hardly breathe. Percy looms over him. His fingers are running over the key, and he’s so close that Monty can feel the heat of him, all along his front.

“Why do you think?” Percy asks.

Monty can only look up at him, feeling helpless and hopeful. “I don’t know. I don’t know why you gave it to me in the first place.”

Percy lets the key fall and reaches for Monty’s hands, pulling Monty to his feet.

“I didn’t know if we would do that again. I thought if one time was all we had, I wanted to keep the memory. A token.”

“Well, it’s my token. You have to get another one,” Monty says, and immediately wants to bludgeon himself with Percy’s textbooks.

To his surprise, Percy’s face is breaking into a slow smile, like a sunrise. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He turns his delighted smile from the key to Monty’s face. “You’ll have to get me something this time.”

Monty swallows. He’s not sure what Percy is saying, what Percy means here.

“Percy. If you—”

“I thought it was my only chance. I thought it was something that you needed, something that only I could give you. And I loved that. I loved that you needed me, that no one else would do. But I—” he stops, and bites his lip. Then his face breaks out into the most heart wrenchingly smile. “If someone offers you everything you ever wanted. You’d be an utter fool to say no. Even if it’s all you’ll ever get.”

“It’s not,” Monty says. He unclasps the chain from around his neck and holds out the key. “It’s not all you’ll ever get. You can have,” he swallows. “You can have everything.”

“Oh,” Percy breathes. With trembling hands, he reaches out, and Monty thinks he will take the key. Then his hands close on Monty’s face. “Oh.”

This kiss isn’t like the night of the opera. It’s sweet, exploratory. Monty presses slow, lingering kisses to Percy’s mouth, their lips clinging.

He breaks off with a gasp, and Percy’s hands settle on his waist. It’s almost too much, he’s shaking with it.

“Monty?”

“I kept thinking,” Monty ducks his head. “I kept thinking that if I could only kiss you, if you would only let me—that I would be able to win you over. Like it was some stupid magic spell, and kissing you would solve the entire fucking thing. And then we kissed the night of the opera and then, God, Percy you could hardly look at me the next day. And then you wanted to stop and—”

“Wait, I wanted to stop?” Percy says, incredulous.

“Well, yeah? I was going to ask if you wanted to,” Monty feels utterly foolish, “date. Or something. And you wanted to stop, and I thought, that’s it then. That’s that done.” He draws the key back into his grasp as Percy makes no move to take it back.

“Monty,” Percy says, with infinite tenderness. He leans down and catches Monty’s lips again, kissing him slowly and deeply, until Monty’s legs are shaking with it. When Percy breaks away, his face is flushed. “I couldn’t kiss you,” he says against Monty’s lips. “I was so sure that you would know how I felt. And then, when you kissed me. It was too much, Monty, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t have so much of you and still have it still be a game.”

“It was never a game,” Monty replies, the words falling into the quiet place between them. “I’m in love with you.” It’s astounding how easily those words come, after years of being so afraid of them.

Percy’s face is a sight to behold. He looks lit up from within, incandescently happy. “Yeah?”

“Yes, Percy. I thought that was pretty obvious by now.”

“You were talking about me on the radio,” Percy says, like he is only just now putting the pieces together.

“Yes.”

“You said that this was enough. Just to have the person in your life. That was enough.”

“It’s everything,” Monty ducks his head. “You’re everything. Even if we never kissed again.”

“God, Monty.” Percy’s voice is choked, and he raises a shaking hand to cover his mouth. His eyes are brimming with tears. “I love you so much. I’m so very, very in love with you.”

“Oh.” He can’t speak. He can hardly breathe.

Percy smiles at him. “Have I rendered the great Lord Montague speechless?”

“Shut up,” Monty says. “I can’t believe—I never thought this would happen. I can’t believe it’s happening now.” Then, before Percy can say anything else. “Don’t worry though. We don’t have to tell anyone.”

This close together, still pressed against Percy, he can feel the way that Percy’s breath catches at that. He looks up in time to see Percy’s brow crease.

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Monty shrugs, trying for nonchalant. “I know you’d hate—I know you don’t want to be in the papers. That you didn’t want to—” he can’t finish the sentence, but Percy hears what he means anyway.

Percy lifts Monty’s face up to meet his eyes. “Monty. I am not ashamed of you. I will never, ever be embarrassed to be seen with you. Let the press take whatever pictures they want.”

“But you— I thought you—” he’s reeling.

“I didn’t want to be listed as another one of your conquests, Monty.” Percy looks away, and it occurs to Monty for the first time that Percy has been hurting as well. “I was already waiting for you to call it off. I couldn’t bear—” he clears his throat.

Monty thinks back, all the times that he played it off like he was just waiting for the next thing, the next person. The look on Percy’s face when he had seen Monty and Sinjon together. The thought of him being jealous isn’t funny anymore.

“All those times I mentioned us being causal. When I talked about meeting other people,” he trails off.

Percy glances away. “Yeah, that, uh. That sucked.” He takes a deep breath and meets Monty’s eyes again. “But I can’t think of anything I would want more than for the entire world to know that you’re mine.”

It’s like Monty’s entire body catches fire at those words. He reaches up and pulls Percy into another kiss, hardly able to believe he gets to do this.

Percy pulls away with a gasp. His face is flushed, and his eyes are wild and Monty is so in love with him that it hurts.

“Wait, wait,” he says. “One more thing. I just— what you said the other day. About how I was after the Tape. I never meant to—” he takes a deep breath and lets it all out in a rush. “IwatchedtheTape.”

“I—what?”

Percy’s grip tightens on Monty’s, like he expects him to pull away. “I didn’t realize how much it bothered you. It all seemed like a big joke to you. I didn’t mean to but.” As close at they are, Monty can feel the heat radiating off of Percy.

“Did you get off on it?” he asks, mostly curious. He feels like he should be angry, or upset. But, it’s Percy.

“I,” Percy stutters. “Not once I realized that it bothered you.”

“So, yes.”

“Oh, god,” Percy says, and he sounds mortified. “Yes.”

Monty frowns, not displeased, but thoughtful. “Why tell me now? We were sleeping together, you can’t have thought I would mind.”

“It’s not exactly platonic behavior. I was doing my best to hide how I felt from you.”

“Mission accomplished, I guess.”

“It was selfish of me. I was so mortified that I’d watched it, and everytime I looked at you— I was never disgusted with you, Monty.” He pauses. “A bit horrified, maybe, at the realization that I was jealous of Richard Fucking Peele, but not at you.”

“Fuck Richard Peele,” Monty says.

“We hate Richard Peele,” Percy agrees. “I should have been there for you. I never meant you to feel—you seemed fine. I didn’t even think you’d noticed.”

“Yeah,” Monty drawls. “You really could have done more than help keep me grounded with a kinky sexual relationship with almost no context about what was going on.”

Percy huffs a laugh. “When you put it like that.”

Monty draws a breath. “About that. I can’t begin to—it helped. I can’t even say how much you helped me, Percy. Even when I thought you didn’t want me, it helped. You kept me sane.”

“Not want you?” Percy asks. “I could never.”

“Sap,” Monty says, teasing.

“I’m sorry that you doubted that. That I made you feel unwanted.” Percy tucks a piece of Monty’s hair behind his ear. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

“I hurt you as well,” Monty says, and it’s still a surprise. He hadn’t thought their relationship had the power to hurt Percy.

“We hurt each other,” Percy agrees. He reaches down to Monty’s clenched fist and uncurls his fingers. The key sits in his hand, and Monty isn’t sure if he wants Percy to take it, or for Percy to let him keep it.

Then Percy interlaces their fingers, the key pressed between their palms as Percy raises their clasped hands to his lips. “We’ll just have to start over.”

Monty can feel every ridge and bump in the key, and it doesn’t feel like a lost reminder. It doesn’t feel like a token to something that he is struggling to hold on to.

It’s just a key.

And it's been within his reach the entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this entire story was not a set up to that pun. It happened almost entire accidentally and then I just had to.


End file.
